
Gopy)i§htN^_- 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 




/ / 



THE POETICAL WORKS 

of 

ED^A/^IN OSCAR GALE 

Author of 
REMINISCENCES OF EARLY CHICAGO 



AUTHOR'S EDITION 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

EUGENE J. HALL 
W. E. S. TROWBRIDGE 



Press of 

Marshall-Jackson Company 

Chicago 






,A^^ 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 2 1906 

Copyriirlit Entry 

CLASS A^Xc(, No. 

^. 
CO I 



COPY 



Copyright 1906 

EDWIN O. GALE 

Oak Park, III. 







Poetic Reflections. 
Edwin O.Gale 



^;:ar::. 



PREFACE. 

These "Falling Leaves" were written in the spare mo- 
ments of a long and intensely active business life, as a 
pleasant diversion and with no intention of giving them 
greater publicity than the occasions which inspired them, or 
their appearance in our local magazines and papers. 

Many of the shorter pieces have been published, especially 
in the Chicago Evening Journal, whose editor for years, the 
late Honorable Andrew Shuman, always took a great inter- 
est in my productions and solicited them for his paper. 

As a result of this publication I have had frequent re- 
quests from my friends to issue them in book form, which I 
have as often promised to do, and now as the shadows of my 
75th year admonish me that it may be unwise longer to pro- 
crastinate, I take great pleasure in gratuitously presenting 
these modest Falling Leaves to my cherished friends of 
Auld Lang Syne as souvenirs of Early Chicago, and with the 
warmest sentiment of esteem. EDWIN O. GALE. 



DEDICATION. 

To tlice I dedicate these lays, 
These "Falling Leaves," dear wife of mine. 
My brow would ask no greener bays 
Than those thy loving hands entwine. 
This one szveet thought is my delight; 
As are my cares, zvill critics be 
Forgotten, zvhen the shades of night 
Restore me, wife, to home and thee. 

As streams the pennant from the mast 
Tozvards the fast receding shore, 
As boatmen alzvays backzvard cast 
Their eyes zvhen pulling at the oar, 
So, zvhen from thee I turn my face. 
As needle to its star is true. 
My heart defying time and space, 
Forever turns, dear zvife, to you. 

EDWIN O. GALE. 
Chica.^o, July iSth, '06. 



PRELUDE. 

When days grow short and nights grow cold 

And rounds the harvest moon, 

When maple leaves are turned to gold, 

Their gold to deep maroon ; 

When, like a maid to altar led, 

That oriole of bushes. 

The berried sumach, droops its head. 

Suffused with crimson blushes ; 

When russet steals upon the oak. 

Dull winter's sure forecomer, 

And all earth's garments hang in smoke 

Of languid Indian summer. 

Then frosty sickles of the air 

Among the tree-tops whistle, 

And reaping wide, the crisp leaves bear 

Like seeds of downy thistle. 

They swirl across the sombre lawn 

Like quails when hawks low hover. 

One moment here, another gone 

In search of friendly cover. 

These leaves that rustle at our feet 
When harvest's songs are ended, 
Whose royal hues together meet. 
Rich gold with purple blended. 
Are photographs of sunny days 
With just enough of showers 
To catch the rainbow's transient rays 
In brilliant tints of flowers. 



A maid picks up a wind tossed spray 

Which daintily she presses, 

Then sends to one now long away, 

Who whelms it with caresses. 

On it he sees a bright, young face 

Which grows forever dearer, 

For absence lends to beauty, grace, 

While Time cuts each charm clearer 

He walks once more the shaded lane, 
With tender voice, low bending. 
To willing ears repeats again 
The vows of love unending. 
He feels the pressure of a hand, 
Of lips that prayed at parting. 
His heart is in his native land, 
His blissful tears are starting. 

He sees his home, the old elm tree, 
Young friends beneath it swinging. 
He hears the birds in melody 
Among its branches singing. 
Again beholds the well sweep high, 
The oaken bucket, olden. 
And looking down sees double sky, 
HER face with ringlets golden. 

Oh ! if a single leaf can give 
To one his hours of gladness, 



Recalling days he used to live 
Beyond his nights of sadness, 
May "Falling Leaves" to you restore 
What gave in childhood pleasure, 
Bring back those yesterdays once more. 
The heart so loves to treasure. 



10 



CONTENTS 

A Cold Water Toast . ... 235 

After a While, Darling (Song) . . .172 

Address to the American Flag . 186 

Are There Birds and Flowers in Heaven? • . 25 

A Straj' Clover and a Stranger ... 58 

A View from Mount Wilson Trail, Pasadena . 49 

An Autumnal Day in the Woods ... 47 

"Aunty I Stump You to Run Me a Race" . 258 

Baby Edwin Oscar Gale, Jr. . . . 372 

Birds of Passage ... . . 328 

Bury Me With My Comrades, Should I in Battle Fall 177 

By Their Fruit Shall Ye Know Them . . 228 

Charity ...... 76 

Cheerfulness . . . . . .70 

Childhood at Fort Dearborn (Pioneer Club Banquet) 120 

Chicago's Old Time Town Criers . . • 124 

Clouds and Their Wealth . . . 26 
Concentrated Butter . ... 345 

Cyclorama of the Chicago Fire . . • 248 

Dream of Other Years, Friend (Song) . . 162 

Echo Mountain, Pasadena ... 54 

Elkhart Lake, Wis. ... . .62 

Erisichton ..... . 213 

Falling Leaves ... . .23 

Flowers and Faith .... 86 

Fresh Buttermilk .... .93 

11 



God Bless You Sir .... 260 

God's Temple .... .42 

"God Will be Here Soon" . . .309 

Grand-Pa's Love Letter . . . 363 

Grace for Christmas .... 374 

Hollo Bill! Hollo Ed! . . .72 

Hope for the Best • . • .99 

Homeward Through the Snow Storm . . 350 

Home's Scattered Voyagers ... . 365 

How We Paid Toll when We were Boys. • 367 

Hush-a-by, Lulla-by, Rock-a-by (Song) . . 170 

In Memoriam — To the Memory of Hon.A.G.Throop 134 

I Miss the Songs My Sister Sang (Song) • • 322 

January's Jewels ..... 33 

Lay Me Down and Save the Flag • • • 179 

Letter of Prof. James Gowdy Clark . • 301 

Life's Broken Chimes • • . • 80 

Lines Written in Miss A. A.'s Album . • 231 

" A Little Girl's Album . 232 

" Miss Annie S.'s Album . . 234 

" " H.B's Album . . 233 

Julia E's Album . 232 

Daisy Polk's Birthday Book 234 

to Mr. and Mrs. D. R., Port Huron 354 

Lines Written to Mrs. H. Gookins upon her 84th 

Birthday 360 

Look for Sunshine not for Clouds ... 99 

Light and Shade . • . • • • 335 



Loyal Hearts and Happy Homes • . 196 

"Love is Blind" • . . ... 317 

Lullaby 168 

Mary Had a Little Goat 230 

Miramar . • • • . • 51 

My Regrets • • .... 147 

My Regrets H. S. T. . . . . 152 

My Little Boy's Prayer 312 

My Father . .... 337 

" on His 83rd Birthday . . . 333 

My Wife . ... 344 

Morning and Evening Gun at San Diego . • 247 

Nearing the End of the Road . . . 374 

New Year's Eve • .... 314 

Our Golden Wedding .... 377 

Our Loss was Trifling ..... 180 

Ourselves and Our Neighbors . . . 224 
On Revisiting Elkhart Lake after Many Years Absence 46 

On a Sweet Pea Bouquet . ... 92 
On Being Presented with a Copy of Whittier's Sundown 154 

On Leaving My Family at Elkhart Lake • • 304 
On My Wife's Portrait . . .330 

On Parting with Our California Horse Charley . 368 
On Receiving a Maple Leaf from My Aunt Mary's 

Grave ..... 346 

On Presenting My Wife with a Portrait of Oscar 310 

On Seeing Oscar's Playthings • . . 348 

On the Death of Our Son Oscar . . . 305 

13 



Optimism ... . • 336 

Our Faith and Strength • • . . 85 

Parting with Schoolmates . • • . /o 

Reception of Rev. R. F. Johonnot, D. D., after a 

Summer Vacation • ... 130 

Reunion of the Alumni and Graduates of Oak Park 

High School . . . . 113 

Reunion of the Dearborn School Scholars • 115 

of Fort Dearborn Scholars at Mrs. Geo. A. 
Ingalls' . . . • -109 

Selfish Prayers • • . . 77 

Silent Grace .... • 373 

Speak Well of Your Neighbor ... 69 

"Stroke by Stroke" • • • -238 

Tecumseh . . . • • ^^^ 

Thanksgiving Hymn • • • • ^"" 

The Auction Criers . • • .105 

The Babyhood Island of Dreams (Song) • • 169 

The Bravest of the Brave .... 2-7 

The Bridal Veil Falls, Yosemite • • 35 

The Bible • • • . • 203 

The Burial of President Lincoln • • 1^4 

The Drainage Canal and Chicago River . • 241 

The Four Centuries Flower • • • ^5- 

The Independent Man • • . . 219 

The Jilted Muse .... 236 

The Last Wish of Lincoln • • • -182 

The Legend of the California Poppy • • 271 



The Legend of the Water Lilies • • 285 

The Little Hero ... .217 

The Mojave Mirage • • • .57 

The Organist and Death • . -91 

The Origin of the Violin .... 262 
The Poet of the People, Prof. James G. Clarlc 143 

The Sentimental Business Man • . • 100 

The Stream of Our Childhood (Pioneer Club Banquet) 127 
The Thrush and the Robin . • .37 

The Two Angels .... 254 

The Unseen Giver . . • • .87 

The Village Bell and the Belle of the Village . 225 

The Village Church • • . .221 

The World's Columbian Exposition • . 243 

The Violet's Lesson ... .36 

Then and Now ... . . 324 

Those Handsome Are Who Handsome Do . • 240 

Times Headlands .... 132 

To a Friend on the Death of His Wife . • 83 

To a Friend Who Married a Julia • . 146 

To a Son on His Wedding Day . . • 341 

To a Son and His Wife upon the First Anniversary 

of Their Wedding . • 370 

To Alexander Beaubien • • . • 118 

To a Nephew and His Bride Upon Their Wedding Day 319 
To H. S. and His Bride • ... 331 

To J. D. B. of Denver on His Silver Wedding . 153 

To John Blair . . . . . 140 



15 



To a Night Blooming Jasmine • . -45 

To William F. Blocki . . . . 148 

To Rev. Dr. H. I. C. . . . • 157 

To Luna (A Song) . . . . 165 

To M. and A. upon Their Wedding Day . 358 

To Mrs. and Mr. C. E. R. upon Their Tin Wedding 138 
To Mrs. J. K. R. upon Her 70th ? Birthday • 145 

To Hon. W. H. Wood . . . 150 

To Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Wood upon Their Golden 

Wedding . . . . .151 

To My Wife on Her Thirty-Sixth Birthday • 313 

Forty-first " • 320 

" " Fiftieth " . .339 

when Absent in Ann Arbor . 344 

" " Maine • • 351 

and Boys when Spending their Vaca- 
tion on the Coast of Maine . • 352 
To Miss Kate B. . ... .270 

To My Son on His 20th Birthday . • .335 

Turn Your Face to the Sun • • • 343 

Upon Disinterring the Mound Builders . . 210 

"Until the Day-break, and Shadows Flee Away . 44 

Waiting at the Gate for Grandpa- • . • 96 

Washington at Trenton .... 188 

We are Soon Forgotten when We're Gone . • 75 

Wear Your Smiles with Your Slippers ■ • 71 

Weariness ..... 356 

Welcome Memory Like the Songs of Birds • 89 

16 



What is the White Man's Burden ? . -266 

Where are the Friends that Sang for Me? (Song) 164 

Who Shall My Comrade Be ? . .61 

Wild Oats . . . . . 220 

Write Me a Song (Song) .... 161 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Portrait of Author • • ■ Frontispiece 

Falling Leaves . • ... 5 

Are there Birds and Flowers in Heaven ? • 26 

Clouds and Their Wealth . ... 28 

January's Jewels • ... 34 

The Thrush and the Robin . . . .38 

God's Temple • ... 42 

On Revisiting Elkhart Lake After Many Years Absence 46 
An Autumnal Day in the Woods • • 48 

A View from Mt. Wilson's Trail, Pasadena, California 50 
Who Shall My Comrade Be ? . . .62 

Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin ... 64 

Parting with Schoolmates . . . .78 

Life's Broken Chimes • • . . 80 

The Unseen Giver . . . . .88 

Fresh Buttermilk . ... 94 

Waiting at the Gate for Grandpa . . .96 

The Sentimental Business Man . . . 100 

The Stream of Our Childhood . . . 128 

On Receipt of a Copy of Whittier's "At Sundown" 154 
The Babyhood Island of Dreams • • • 170 

Loyal Hearts and Happy Homes • • • 196 

Still Flow^s the Stately Kennebec . . . 198 

Disinterring the Mound Builders . . . 210 

By Their Fruit Shall Ye Know Them • • 228 

The Jilted Muse .... 236 

18 



Stroke by Stroke ..... 238 

"Aunty, I Stump You to Run Ale a Race" • 258 

He Wanted a Little the Start • • 260 

The Origin of the Vioh'n • • 262 

The Legend of the Water Lilies • • • 286 

Dulce Domun .... . 302 

On Leaving My Family at Elkhart Lake, . . 304 

Light and Shade .... 326 

Homeward Through the Snow Storm • • 350 

To My Wife While Absent in Maine . . 352 

To My Wife and Son while in Maine . . 354 

On Parting with Our California Horse, Charley 368 



Poems of Nature 



FALLING LEAVES. 

The winter approaches, the summer is past, 
How fast the leaves fall in the chilly north blast. 
They gather in heaps by the side of the way, 
Then scatter like children in rollicking play. 
They seem as the birds with intelligence crowned 
Slow fluttering down from the trees to the ground. 
How joyous their movements as upward they spring 
Like some clumsy fledgling first trying its wing. 
No lark appears happier chasing its note, 
The joy in its heart leaping out at its throat. 

When May last approached with its bright sunny skies, 

And Flora's pet child with its indigo eyes 

Was watching a youth in a golden surtout. 

As slowly he rose from taraxicum root, 

The oak at my window looked barren and dead. 

No promise of leaves where the old had been shed. 

His fingerless hands to the sun he upbore ; 

A beggar forlorn, he did mutely implore 

Apollo to clothe him with verdure again, 

Through woofs of the sun to weave warps of the rain. 

The wind swept its branches, as harps that arc strung. 
The birds were in transport and sang as they swung; 
The clouds scattered tears on each embryo leaf. 
The sun kissed them off, giving gladness for grief; 
The buds bursting bonds that had held them so long, 
Though weaklings at first became suddenly strong; 
No cunning of man could such power bestow 

23 



And through the alburnum coax fluids to flow. 

Who taught the young leaves to choose food with such skill. 

As bees from the flowers their nectaries fill? 

What taste in their vestments they wisely displayed: 
They studied the prism ere garments were made; 
When up in the branches they first could be seen, 
To hasten their growth did they don a bright green; 
Attaining full size they wore russets and browns, 
Like elderly matrons in plain, modest gowns. 
What artists these leaves and what toilers they've been, 
So peerless in painting, so skillful to spin; 
Combining the forces of earth and of air 
They crowned the old oak with a coronet rare. 
Their mission performed they sent down to the soil 
For leaves of the future, bequeathments of oil. 

What eloquent sermons these falling leaves preach, 
What lessons of labor and patience they teach. 
Of faith and good works. The gospel of cheer 
They whisper to those who are willing to hear. 
Men boast when they give what they never may miss, 
But where do we find such devotion as this? 
When winds with their flails make the giant oaks bend. 
And, thrashed from their cups, the ripe acorns descend, 
Like angels who come from their bright homes above 
To comfort the hearts sore in need of their love. 
The faithful leaves drop to the acorns below, 
Warm blankets upon them to tenderly throw. 
The winter may come with its ice and its silt, 

24 



But safe are the nuts in their foliage quilt, 
And when they at length shall emerge from the cold, 
The spades of the acorns will pierce the soft mould. 
The leaves that preserved them, now gone to decay 
Will nourish the monarchs of some distant day. 

Aye wonderful things are these fast falling leaves, 
From year after year nature daintily weaves 
With dew drops for needles, with sunbeams for thread, 
Gay garbs for the living from shrouds of the dead. 

November i, 1868. 



ARE THERE BIRDS AND FLOWERS IN 
HEAVEN? 

They say that the song of no sweet singing bird, 
Enchanting us here, will in Heaven be heard; 
The wing of the lark without power shall be 
To bear it in safety across the dark sea. 
They say that the flowers, so fragrant and fair, 
Though Purity's emblems, will never bloom there; 
No life is immortal excepting our own : 
That man shall inhabit that kingdom alone : 
That banished, forlorn, he in heaven will mourn 
These charming companions from whom he is torn. 

Does God, in His wisdom, discard from His plan 
What makes of this Earth a true Eden for man ? 
Did He — when He spoke and created the world, 
And others above like bright jewels unfurled, 

25 



Pronouncing all "GOOD," from the tiniest blade 
To the grandest of oaks of which navies are made. 
The insects that live generations in days, 
The birds that, as then, are still singing His praise, 
These wondrous creations, think you He designed. 
Promoting man only, to leave these behind? 

No, birds and their songs we could never spare there. 

Like Noah, wherever we go we will bear 

The larks and the robins, the thrushes and jays, 

To blend with our voices their carols of praise. 

And we would take with them the plants and the trees, 

The tiniest insects and homes for all these, 

The velvety moss in the dense sylvan bowers, 

The ferns and the rushes, and honey-dipped flowers, 

Till heaven embraced in its portals of light 

Whatever on earth filled our souls with delight. 

June 30, 1861. 



CLOUDS AND THEIR WEALTH. 

Awake, my harp, each chord awake ! 
Sing to the clouds ! Sweet music make 
To that grand panorama spread 
In wond'rous beauty overhead; 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the earth. 
Old ocean wild, have had their worth 
And beauty sung in graceful rhyme, 
By bards of every age and clime. 

26 




They say that the sonu' of no sweet singiiiL;- bird, 
Enchanting iis here, will in heaven be lieard. 



The brook, the mountain and the glen 
Have each inspired the poet's pen 
To numbers grand, whose sweetest lays 
Have been the voicing of their praise: 
Thy beauties have been left unsung, 
By idle harps and lutes unstrung. 
Though feeble be my power to sing, 
I tender with the offering 
A heart entranced by every form 
Assumed by thee in calm or storm. 

Conceived by that old alchemist 

Wert thou, who wandered in the mist, 

When all was robed in blackest night 

Until God said, "LET THERE BE LIGHT." 

Thence kisses with the lips of morn 

The mountain tops — and thou art born — 

A tribute lays upon the sea, 

As Neptune's offering to thee, 

And doth a tithe impartial take 

From running stream, from silvered lake, 

^olus calls then from his throne 

To bear you far from zone to zone, 

And bless with thy refreshing showers 

The parched grain and drooping flowers. 

Ye sprites and fairies of the air. 
How brilliant are the hues ye wear: 
When weary stars grow faint at morn, 
And from the East approaches Dawn, 

•J7 



Ye draw the golden bars of Day — 
With crimson banners lead the way. 
With warp and woof of blue and gold, 
With silver borders to each fold, 
Your curtains sweep the jeweled floor, 
While through them all the sunbeams pour. 
And when at length Apollo's car. 
Low rolls beneath the evening star, 
And in his path, descending slow, 
The western skies are all aglow, 
Your scattered garlands meet him there 
As floating on the tranquil air, 
Your nymphs arrayed in vestments bright 
The nuptials view of Day and Night; 
And throw on high a crimson arch, 
Beneath which twilights slowly march. 

As under sparkling stars I stood 

Alone at night, in pensive mood 

The moon above was clear, and bright. 

And every star a spangled light: 

While in the distance, here and there, 

W^ere veil like clouds — as brides might wear- 

I listen to my fancy's rune. 

A ship it fashions of the moon; 

Huge icebergs drifting far to lee 

In soft, white clouds I seemed to see, 

I thought the bark with crushing blow 

Had dashed itself on crags below 



28 







o .: 

C ' 



Whereon it threw its silver freight, 

Whose walls stood trembling with its weight. 

Oft hunting in my boyhood day, 

To idly muse the hours away 

I stretched myself beneath the trees. 

That hid the sun and cooled the breeze : 

Low humming tunes with half closed eye, 

And watching clouds go drifting by. 

For lack of birds upon the trees, 

I fancied soaring flocks in these, 

And as I saw them slowly sink 

On far horizon's wooded brink, 

To hide themselves with weary wing. 

With winds to rock and softly sing, 

A fitting cradle I confessed 

The clouds had found in which to rest. 

And thus our hearts in dreams prepare 

These fairy castles of the air. 

Thou boldest more than rain for all ; 

Not one so poor but he may call 

Imagination to his aid. 

And with its help, is quickly made 

The treasure he may highest prize. 

If as ye drift athwart the skies, 

He is a shepherd, would he own 

The fleecy flocks he tends alone? 

He may. And while he wends each day 

Through lonesome voids where duties lay, 

29 



He casts his eyes where ye may ride, 
And feels a noble, lordly pride. 
Beholding on the hills of air 
His thousand flocks, safe grazing there. 

Is love of wealth in his young breast 

The sentiment that rules the rest? 

If he will let his fancy play 

But one brief hour some April day 

The breeze-filled sails shall he see spread, 

As ye go drifting overhead, 

That bear his ships in waving lines. 

Rich freighted with the wealth of mines. 

Does in his heart ambition beat? 

As soldier does he long to meet 

In fight, some famed, some valiant foe 

And hand to hand, give blow for blow? 

Ye can be marshal and array; 

Like armies eager for the fray: 

Can hurl the thunder's hoarse command, 

To urge the heroes of his band, 

And draw from scabbards of the skies 

Fierce, blazing swords that fall and rise 

Like fiends of vengeance on the foe, 

And drench with tears the world below. 

Or, seeing frigate in wild clouds. 

With tapering masts and straining shrouds, 

His soul is kindled with delight, 

30 



And seizing helm he offers fight. 

Far off to lee a gun is heard, 

A cloud scuds by like frightened bird, 

A black one there, another here — 

He opens port with wildest cheer, 

Burst forth the flames from each dark throat, 

While curling clouds above them float ; 

From stem to stern they broadsides pour, 

They flash and flame with dreadful roar; 

Till at the rainbow's peaceful sign 

The thunders cease along the line. 

Longs he to see some distant land? 

Behold its ruins, old and grand? 

Would he with travelers explore 

The tombs of nations now no more ? 

Would he the pyramids behold. 

The catacombs, with hallowed mold ? 

The foaming deep, the mountain range. 

Old Nature's glories, wild and strange, 

And yet has not at his command 

The means to leave his native land ? 

With facts his mind he richly stores. 

And with his fancy he explores 

The prototypes he finds revealed 

In yonder ever changing field. 

From Stevens, Humboldt, Taylor. Kane. 

He borrows eyes and sees again 

While sitting in his cottage door 

What they had viewed, long years before. 

31 



He walks the boundless sky with you, 
Pompeii's buried world to view, 
Afar he sees St. Peter's dome; 
The glory of the modern Rome. 
There does her Colosseum stand 
Amidst its wealth of ruins grand; 
Its broken shafts and pillars laid 
Along its Crumbling colonnade. 

Does age his weary steps delay? 

Have those youth loved all passed away? 

Have sorrows deep so palled his heart, 

As friend by friend he's seen depart, 

While he alone is left behind, 

That veils of sadness cloud his mind? 

Ah, yes, he'd join yon blessed throng, 

And as he sees you sweep along 

A consolation sweet he finds 

As in his thought he silent winds 

Through church yard graves where by each lane 

God's weary ones, forgetting pain, 

Have happy been through lengthened years, 

While dim his eyes have grown with tears. 

He sees a church with modest spire, 

Its windows bathed with transient fire; 

His heart and soul take heavenly flight, 

With loved ones gone before, unite, 

And joining those who worship there 

He bends with them his head in prayer. 

March, 1868. 

32 



JANUARY'S JEWELS. 

In armor of ice with a glitter and gray, 

The trees were in line, like huzzars for the fray : 

With medal-decked breast and jewel-gemmed crest 

They flanked the long street, from the east to the west. 

The wind sweeping by set each opal ajar 

With brilliance unequalled since Bethlehem's star. 

Some genie of night, had on cedar and pine 

Wrought helmets of frostwork from diamonds divine. 

Like stars that on furlough had left the blue vault, 

Placing sentinels out, and here making a halt; 

Or rainbow congealed in the sharp, frosty air 

Had dropped on the trees, and hung crystallized there. 

A ribbon of gold softly curtained the east, 

A matin flame burning for people and priest. 

Dawn lifted her curtain, and soon from afar 

Led forth the proud steeds with their luminous car. 

The wild, wayward Jehu, forgetting his scars, 

Looked down with delight on this tableaux of Mars. 

Apollo beholding with envy the sight. 

His chariot mounted arrayed for the fight. 

High drawing his blade, like the bold cavaliers. 

Who struck for their king, with all England in tears. 

He made a fierce charge on the icicles gray. 

Their beauty enhancing with each parried ray : 

A moment they stood like the Old Guard of France, 

Ere trampled and crushed by bold Blucher's advance. 

Then melting to tears, like the prayers of the just. 

They dropped from the trees to the snow's frozen crust. 

88 



Chaste frostwork of beauty, farewell for a day — 

The breath that created hath called thee away; 

The crystal art groups on the palettes of sky, 

The sun will transfer to new easels on high. 

Again will be painted God's promise of old, 

On rifts of the cloud with a pencil of gold. 

Again shall we see thee when winter is gone, 

And Memnon is mourned so sincerely by Dawn, 

When the heart of Aurora, now stricken with grief, 

Shall pour itself out upon flower and leaf. 

We will follow her tears — sweet sisters of rain — 

A pathway of silver through forest and plain: 

Now gathered like pearls on some fair, heaving breast, 

They sink in their bed like a babe to its rest. 

The rill to a river spreads out to the sea ; 

Not tarrying there, soon again it will be 

In clouds drifting over some far distant land, 

And falling to earth at the Storm King's command. 

A text for all time were those icicles gray, 

For beauty will vanish^ and splendor decay. 

The vision that greeted the famishing child, 

Who feasted in heaven, while starving she smiled, 

Its prototype found in the landscape that morn. 

When Night's matchless brilliants were scattered and gone. 

That dream was the gate to a beautiful life, 

A life that was closed to all heartache and strife: 

That gossamer drapery swept by a breath, 

And passing from view as the child did in death ; 

Like her only altered the garb it had worn, 

34 




In an armor of ice, with a glitter and gray, 
The trees were in lines like Hussars for tlie fray. 



For death is life changing its visible form. 

The fast melting frost, redissolving in air, 

Or dropping to earth, to conceal itself there, 

Some new form will take, blending beauty with power, 

In dewdrop, in stream, or in life-giving shower. 

February 5, 1871. 



THE BRIDAL VEIL FALLS OF YOSEMITE. 

Like maiden in blushes, who strives to conceal 
The charms which her efforts are sure to reveal, 
This virgin of waterfalls struggles to hide 
From curious eyes 'neath a veil of the bride. 
When cup she doth fill as did Hebe of old 
A draught to the gods from her flagon of gold. 

Here El Capitan and the Bridal Veil Falls 

Like groom and his bride are impaled amidst walls, 

Immovable both, like Prometheus chained, 

In grief have through ages asunder remained. 

To El Capitan she her constancy shows 

As only to him she her nectar bestows. 

While he in calm silence with uncovered head 

Stands quaffing the drops as a pledge to the dead. 

Yosemite Falls. June 12, 1897. 



35 



THE VIOLETS' LESSON. 

When from the fields and shaded nooks 

The snow had shpped away, 

And brimmed with laughter swirled through brooks 

Like children wild with play, 

Upon a bank midst beads of dew, 

I plucked with eager hand. 

Those sprites of spring, whose eyes of blue 

Beflecked the verdant land. 

I, musing, kissed them tenderly, 

And ere I was aware 

They seemed a message sent to me, 

Which God had written there. 

I read that He works not in vain, 

In ocean, sky, or earth; 

Each moss, or blade, on rock, or plain, 

Is blest by. Him with worth. 

I read that while He studs with gems 
The curtains of the night, 
He rules as well in lowly realms. 
He marks the sparrow's flight, 
Designs a mission for each leaf 
Created by His will, 
However meek its life, and brief, 
A purpose to fulfill. 

My mind went out to other flowers 
That years before I'd known, 



To birds that sang in home's sweet bowers, 
Which from my sight had flown. 
Deep snows upon their beds had lain, 
Their songs were hushed and still, 
Oft questioned my sad heart in vain, 
What mission did they fill? 

I read the mission plainly there, 

I walked in Hope's bright ray, 

I saw the bloom when banks were bare. 

When snows had passed away. 

I read, what ever since I've felt, 

And cheered my heart to know, 

These snows of earth will some day melt, 

And flowers of heaven show. 

April, 1871. 



THE THRUSH AND THE ROBIN. 

Last spring as I strolled in my walk 
I heard in a tree overhead, 
Two birds very earnestly talk. 
And this is about what they said. 

The robin the thrush first addressed — 
'T think my dear madam, like me. 
You contemplate building a nest 
On this, or some neighboring tree. 
If so I'd not wish to intrude, 

37 



But seek for myself some retreat 

Where I can bring up my young brood 

In safety, with plenty to eat." 

"Do not, my dear madam, I pray," 

The thrush sweetly sang in reply, 

"Allow me to drive you away. 

You have as good right here as I. 

Besides I would greatly prefer 

To build a luxurious nest. 

Where scarce would my pets have to stir. 

To live on the richest and best. 

In fact, last evening I chose 

A patch of tall blackberry cane. 

Where rank and neglected it grows, 

Beyond the old fence by the lane. 

My choice I consider most wise. 

I'm sure you will say I am right, 

Well hidden from cruel boys' eyes, 

I started my dwelling last night. 

We thrushes, besides, you must know, 

Are lovers of all kinds of berries, 

And willing are we to bestow 

On robins the worms and the cherries. 

I've planned it, I think, so that my 

Dear children will have a good time 

And feed e'en before they can fly 

On berries right then in their prime: 

For mothers in duty are bound 

To furnish the choicest and best 

That can be by diligence found 



For little ones yet in the nest. 
So 1 have quite settled my mind 
That they shall not toil for their food, 
And when they grow up, you will find 
A happy and careless young brood." 

"Very well," did the robin reply, 
"We each should live up to our views, 
I glory in toil, and deny 
They are happy, who idleness choose. 
In truth, I'm delighted to work. 
If by it my darlings may live, 
And not for an instant will shirk 
The, labor my children will give. 
My wish shall be always that they 
May never from idleness spoil. 
More joy find the young in their play 
If seasoned with hours of toil. 
I will in this cherry tree build 
A home for my birdlings and me, 
Their wants and my own shall be filled 
By worms that would damage the tree." 

Away flew the birds as they spoke. 

The thrush with much pride in her breast, 

Soared up through a neighboring oak 

Then dropped to her half finished nest. 

The rol^in began with much zeal 

To build with the grasses hard by. 

I knew in its breast it must feel 

39 



The song it sent up to the sky, 

And He who beholdeth the fall 

Of the tiniest bird to the ground 

Will certainly recognize all 

Whose hearts with His praises abound. 

In summer again I went by : 

I found that the mothers were blest, 

For four little birds I could spy 

With heads peeping out from each nest. 

Their mothers were chirping around, 

As busy as mothers can be. 

One instant, were down on the ground, 

Another, high up in the tree. 

At once to my mind there recurred 

The talk I had heard in the spring. 

The spirit displayed by each bird 

In the songs that I then heard them sing. 

Here luxury rounded the cup 

Where twittered the thrush's young brood, 

I thought that they never looked up. 

Except to give blessings for food. 

With berries deliciously sweet 

The canes with profusion were crowned, 

The choicest and best did they eat. 

The ripe and the sweet and the sound. 

But hard toiled the robin all day, 

To meet the sharp calls from the nest. 

Unceasingly winging its way. 

Scarce taking a moment for rest. 

40 



And thus seems it often in life, 
Success grants its favors to few, 
While hunger, with sorrow, and strife, 
Are sloughs that the many pass through. 
But sequences vindicate right; 
What seems, is not always the best: 
A wind swept the bushes that night 
And threw a young thrush from its nest. 
Impaling the bird on a thorn. 
Its struggles its pains but increased. 
The breast by them deeper was torn. 
Till Death in its kindness released. 

How many most envied are found, 
Whose lives so by fortune seem blest. 
Where riches unnumbered abound, 
Like those of this fruit-circled nest; 
But thistles and briars are there. 
The hopes of the favored to crush, 
All ready to mangle and tear, 
As had they the breast of the thrush. 

July 3, 1871. 



41 



GOD'S TEMPLE. 

Alone I stood, in reverence stood, 

Within a forest grand, 
Where ehns, and ash, and cottonwood 

Arose on every hand. 
The mellow rays of Autumn's sun 

With Nature's pigments rare 
Had touched the oaks, where woodbines run, 

And limbs of walnut bare. 

The moaning trees the breeze revered. 

Reluctant was to throw 
The leaves that frost had lately seared. 

To rustling mates below. 
The happy songsters of the grove. 

In flocks that daily grew. 
With sweet notes answered kind above. 

Then with them southward flew. 
The squirrels showed a prudent care 

By adding to their store. 
With nuts fast dropping everywhere, 

'Twere folly to ignore. 

It was not long I stood alone 

In that old forest wide. 
For He by whom the woods were sown 

Was standing by my side. 
I felt His presence in the air, 

I saw Him in the leaf. 
And through His goodness, standing there, 




Alone I stood, in reverence stood, 
Within a forest grand. 



I strengthened my belief. 
I heard Him call those birds away 

To where the skies were warm, 
I heard Him to the squirrels say 

"Prepare for months of storm." 

The woods appeared a temple, vast. 

Whose corner-stone was laid 
By God, himself, long ages past 

Before our race was made. 
Its altar was the fragrant sod. 

Its dome, the vault o'erhead, 
Through which arose sweet praise to God- 

From choirs by robins led. 
Each tree grew arch or apsides. 

Its windows, bright in hue. 
Were gaily colored Autumn leaves 

With sunlight streaming through. 
And while my lips spoke not a word. 

My heart went up in prayer. 
I felt the plea by Him was heard, 

As I stood silent there. 

Oh, not alone where man's proud art 

Has lifted lofty spire. 
Does God expect the human heart 

To reach for something higher. 
Oh, not alone where arch and nave 

And massive trusses bare 
ATay echo back the vocal wave 

43 



Does He give heed to prayer. 
The rock^ the sea, the brook, the wood- 

The turf^ the cHmbing vine — 
May each to us in holy mood 

Become a sacred shrine. 

October, 1884. 



UNTIL THE DAYBREAK AND THE SHADOWS 
FLEE AWAY. 

Songs of Solomon ii.i7. 

From out my open window, I watched a summer's day, 
Through golden gates of sunset, in beauty fade away. 
The Day King, from his chariot descending to the west. 
Reclined among the fleecy clouds, as if midst them to rest. 
Before his couch were draperied the curtains of the night, 
Concealing all that loveliness. At last the waning light 
From out the sky had disappeared — except where, from afar 
Between the heavy cumulus, there sparkled forth a star. 

I thought, as I sat gazing there, how much these lives of ours 
Were symbolized in sunset tints and early evening hours. 
How night would draw its mantle dark, concealing from our 

view 
The friendly cheer of daylight's glow, the heaven's brilliant 

hue. 
And how the twilight shadows dull, in veiling setting sun, 
Unnerved us for the conflict stern, the dangers all must run ; 

44 



But, true to God and duty's call, by struggling grandly on, 
At length, would come the daybreak's cheer, and shadows 
flee at dawn. 

August 15, 1876. 



TO A NIGHT- BLOOMING JASMINE. 

There are flowers, bright flowers, that only will bloom 
When the Sun holds his torch for their brilliant display, 
But when night cometh on, with its curtains of gloom 
Both their beauty and fragrance pass mostly away. 
But thou friend ever true^ howe'er heavy the night 
It can never from us thy sweet graces conceal. 
How thy modesty veileth thy charms from the light. 
That thy sisters, fast sleeping, no envy may feel. 

As alone here I sit in the hush of repose. 
With my thoughts playing truant, and dreaming at will, 
I am mindful that darkness on thee thus bestows 
What results in a blessing, thy sweets to distill; 
That 'tis naught to be cheerful midst fortune's caress, 
When the cloud Disappointment ne'er darkens the skies. 
But 'tis brave to be hopeful in gloom and distress. 
To use blocks in the pathway as steps to arise. 

April 2y, 1884. 



45 



ON REVISITING ELKHART LAKE, WIS., AFTER 
MANY YEARS ABSENCE. 

How gently above thee go drifting the years. 
Unchanged the pond hhes that bloom near thy shore, 
The songs of the birds that are greeting my ears, 
The sunbeams that dance on thy crystalline floor. 
The grape-vine's sweet censer its perfume still swings. 
The same are thy delicate maidenhair ferns. 
The wind through the pines its old melody sings. 
Each tree to the north its moss jacket yet turns. 

Oh ! setting so worthy for diamond so rare, 
The charms of life's morning hang over thee still. 
These dense, wooded hills tower up as aware 
They shield by their presence their jewel from ill. 
No change do I see on thy surface or brink. 
Since first I beheld thee, so long, long ago; 
But change do I find in myself when I drink, 
Your mirror I censure that alters me so. 

How young dost thou seem as compared with the earth. 
Now tell me, thou dimpled cheek, can it be true 
That the morning stars sang ages back at thy birth, 
And smile at thee still from their home in the blue ? 
That groves have here many times multiplied been, 
The charms of the living from mold of the dead, 
Since the Nymphs of the woods first saluted thee queen, 
And the rainbows first clasped their bright crown on thy 
head ? 



I cannot persuade me that thou arc as old 
As the mountains and rocks of the far away lands. 
As clouds set adrift on yon sunset of gold, 
Thou seemest as fresh from the Almighty's hands, 
So child-like in beauty, and with a child's ways, 
To ripple with mirth, with thyself but to please. 
To kneel in thy bed, like a child when it prays, 
And pout out thy lips when annoyed at the breeze. 

Transparent as childhood, as bright and as pure, 
Like childhood reflecting what on thee is thrown, 
Thou here art surrounded by beauties, and sure 
In reflecting their graces, to add to thine own. 
But clouds drifting yonder like huge banks of snow 
Cast darkly in passing their shadows on thee, 
So frowns that a parent on child may bestow 
In time will be mirrored for parent to see. 
July 22, 1885. 



AN AUTUMNAL DAY IN THE WOODS. 

The leaves, green, russet and golden. 
Were waving their banners in air, 
Like flags that in battle embolden 
The hearts that are prone to despair. 
They waved as if proudly defying 
The army by Boreas led. 
Though thickly beneath them were lying 
Their comrades, frost stricken, and dead. 



The sun through the tree tops was streaming 
On diamonds that gracefully swung, 
On beads was in radiance gleaming, 
That dews with chilled fingers had strung. 
The leaves heard the silent voice calling 
The voice of their Orient king. 
As on them his warm beams were falling, 
They rose with inaudible wing, 

And those that were quietly lying 
When matted together by frost, 
Soon stirred and were everywhere flying, 
By winds of the Autumn were tossed.- 
They challenged each other and wrestled 
Till weary, then scattering broke, 
Or quail-like, they cozily nestled 
Beneath the old fostering oak. 

My feet, as they stood on the pillows 

And beds that the fallen leaves made, 

Bent them down, like the bright golden willows, 

When snows on their branches are laid. 

As slowly among them I waded, 

I found that their bright hues had fled; 

The crimson and scarlet had faded, 

Though worn by their mates overhead. 

I saw in the sky, far away, 
A band of a deep, inky hue. 
Above it, there gracefully lay 

48 



In exquisite setting of blue, 
Such tints as the rainbows prepare, 
In which I, deHghted, could see 
The colors I mourned in despair 
The sun and the frost had set free. 

Those charms in no tongue could be told 
My soul was entranced with the view 
As each did its beauty unfold 
On Heaven's broad canvas of blue. 
What artists the sun and the frost 
To garner the Autumn's rich dyes 
With which they in figures embossed 
In bright panorama the skies. 

September 22, 1889. 



A VIEW FROM MOUNT WILSON'S TRAIL, 
PASADENA, CAL. 

I bare my brow : in awe and reverence stand 

Supported by this rock, far up the mountain grand. 

Adjured by reeling brain, my eyes to closely veil. 

The while my feet, uncertain, tread this thread-like trail. 

Nor dare I cast my gaze far down that deep abyss, 

While I that strange temptation feel, to leap from this 

Steep, beetling crag, to yonder dark coned pines, so tall. 

And those broad sycamores; which promise, if I fall 

To catch me in their broad embrace, and gently lay 

Me in their shade among the brakes, where, childlike, play 

49 



The leaping diamonds that the rugged rocks set free, 
Wild, sporting, laughing in unbridled liberty. 

But stretching now myself in safety on the brink, 

I see the waters in the cooling shadows sink. 

So far removed are they I cannot hear their plash 

And murmurs as upon the rocks they frightened dash. 

There, where the swaying leaves admit the sun's rays 

through, 
A thousand glittering globes are bursting into view. 
A giant boulder near disputes their onward flight; 
They halt, a council hold, then slyly disunite, 
Conceal their wily movements 'neath a dazzling spray, 
And mock their flinty jailor as they steal away. 

How beautiful this silent, all bewitching scene. 
These lifts of sterile peaks, from pedestals of green; 
Beyond that tumbling stream where cliffs and verdure meet 
So high in air, yet still far down beneath my feet. 
The clouds, in fragments broken by the sudden shock, 
As winds remorseless hurled them on the granite rock. 
Too crushed and weary now to climb the serried wall. 
Still cling, like wounded birds, to limbs on which they fall. 

Far down that winding canon, above the gushing stream, 
A sweep of summer sunshine throws a golden gleam. 
The orchards yield their treasures, tokens of the Lord's, 
With fruits of every clime, display their tempting hoards. 
The springs, which through the mountains sang their joyful 
way, 

50 




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Dissolving Nature's wealth their tributes here to pay, 

Now, with their work accomplished, hide beneath the sand, 

As noble-hearted givers hide the giving hand. 

The flowers, warned by Flora, knowing ocean near, 

Have slipped the sun's soft tethers, camping safely here 

Within this Gallery of Art, where Nature fain 

In eons this fair mountain lifted from the plain, 

This matchless Sierra Madre carved in charming form. 

With nooks for birds and bloom, with cradles for the storm, 

She heaved the massive rocks, like waves of troubled seas. 

And in their charming dimples, she planted titan trees. 

The fragrant chaparral upon their shoulders spread : 

With singing stars as guests, she Earth and Heaven wed. 

August 10, 1895. 



MIRAMAR, NEAR SANTA BARBARA, 
CALIFORNIA. 

Fair Miramar ! Beside the sea, 
Canute-like, hast thou placed thy throne, 
Where baffled billows, chafing, moan 
In efforts vain to swallow thee. 
Thy scepter is by magic charmed. 
And all in vain the tumbling tide 
Expends its fury by thy side. 
Thy hamlet leaving still unharmed. 

We hear the waves incessant flow, 
We watch the breakers on the beach; 

51 



That, finding thee beyond their reach, 
They hide and moan in undertow. • 
Yet, while the vanquished floods retreat. 
Still undismayed above them, sweep 
The crested cohorts of the deep, 
To swell the requiem of defeat. 

But other sounds break on my ear 
This calm and holy Sabbath morn; 
Like incense on the air, are borne 
The Sabbath bells, revered and clear. 
We see no church with lofty spire, 
No grand cathedral on the slope, 
But that sweet sound enkindles hope 
And banishes each low desire. 

Amidst the din of busy marts, 
The bell's salute does not convey 
The meaning this one brings to-day. 
No language speak they to our hearts. 
But here between the mount and sea, 
In this hushed, hallowed atmosphere, 
Deep in our very souls, we hear 
The whisper of Divinity. 

We bless you, holy Sabbath bells ! 
Though all unseen the belfry gray, 
We, with your worshippers, will pray 
As on the air your music swells. 
The woods and hills, while sheltering 

52 



The modest church, from which ascend 
Those mellow tones, their concord lend 
To every true heart worshipping. 

Still other charms you offer me, 
Fair Miramar ! than Sabbath bell. 
And ocean, wit'i its white fringed swell, 
And grove and glen and flowered lea. 
Yon mountain, with its rugged side 
From which so many homes deploy, 
Pours in my heart a greater joy 
Than grove, or glen, or ceaseless tide. 

I watch its ever changing form. 

When its calm brow the sun reveals 

Or mocking cloud its peak conceals 

(False harbinger to us of storm). 

From 'neath each dark, yet brooding wing 

Like chickens basking in the sun, 

A brood of cozy houses run, 

While from their roofs sweet roses swing. 

These pictures will I take with me, 
Fair Miramar! To my far home, 
This vision grand will often come 
Bright mirrored in a waveless sea. 
When prairie flowers spread their glow. 
I'll see thy beauties dwelling there. 
Nor will forget them, when the air 
Is filled with biting frost and snow. 
September 8, 1895. 

53 



ECHO MOUNTAIN. 

From the base of the Sierras 
Long the sun's last rays had fled, 
And the shadows, creeping upward 
Towards the starlight, slowly spread. 
When the booming of a cannon 
Crushed the walls of twilight through, 
And its long reverberations 
Back to Echo Mountain flew : 
While, from summits, and from gorges. 
Of that wild, uncanny world. 
Was the cannoneer's bold challenge. 
In the same deep thunders hurled. 
Hurled from throats of maddened goblins. 
And from fierce, determined gnomes. 
Who for ages on these mountains 
Had defended their weird homes. 
From the peaks and from the canons, 
On the fretted air were borne 
The harsh thunders of the cannon, 
In their voices filled with scorn. 

Now again, the startled Silence 
Had returned with spreading wings, 
And a hush, like the siesta 
Which rest to labor brings, 
Had upon the mountains settled, 
Then was heard a sweet cornet, 
And the elves, the gnomes and goblins, 
Who, so recently, had met 

54 



To repel, in tones of anger, 
The deep thunders of the gun. 
In great haste again assembled; 
While, from throat of every one. 
The soft strains of stirring music. 
Reproduced were all returned; 
Were returned by those same si)irits, 
Who so late with anger burned. 
Not a cafion or a headland. 
Where encamped those goblins, bold. 
But its counterfeit of cornet, 
Back to Echo Mountain rolled. 

Fell a calm upon the mountain, 
Like the hush preceding grace. 
Not the accent of a whisper 
Sent a flutter into space. 
When a song of inspiration, 
The vast mountain fastness filled, 
And the soul of every hearer 
To its very depths was thrilled. 

Did you catch the distant quaver 
Of that sweet, pathetic voice? 
Now it breaks in waves supernal 
And enraptured hearts rejoice. 
How it swells along the ridges — 
How it flies from peak to peak — 
How the tears in bright eyes glisten, 
Too profane were lips, to speak, 

55 



As tlie voices of the goblins, 

Sweetly back to singer flew, 

With the burden of her chorus, 

I LO\'E YOU — Love Vou — love you. 

There was silence on the mountain, 
As a calm succeeds the storm; 
And our hearts were in a flutter, 
While our temples mantled warm. 
As our minds were carried backward 
To some cruel word once said, 
To a loved one who retorted. 
Then in anger from us fled. 
Now we heard that distant echo. 
Though long dormant — vital yet, 
Those dear lips that reproduced them, 
Might we kiss them and forget? 
Might we kissing be forgiven. 
As the gnomes and elves austere, 
Through the sweetness of the singer 
All forgave the cannoneer? 
No — the echo is identical 
With what we may proclaim. 
For the seeds we sow in spring-time 
Will in autumn yield the same. 

We would thank thee. Echo Mountain ? 
For this lesson learned, though slow. 
That the harvest of our future 
Will depend on what we sow. 

5fi 



We must muzzle every cannon, 

We must stifle words of strife, 

Would we have the future echoes, 

Benedictions on our life. 

We must touch the hearts of others 

Till their voices we may hear, 

Like the one upon the mountain. 

With their loving words of cheer. 

We must play the stirring cornet, 

We must sing the touching song, 

Till the chorus of their echoes, 

In our thrilling hearts, prolong 

That delightful benediction. 

Ever old, yet ever new. 

Which was sung by that sweet singer, 

"I LOVE YOU— Love You— love you. 

Pasadena, January i, 1896. 



THE MOJAVE MIRAGE. 

In our far western land, there are deserts of sand, 
With no sign of beginning, nor end, 

Not a life is embraced in their terrible waste, 
Where their limitless borders extend. 

There the traveler oft is most heartlessly scoffed, 
Overcome by the sun-gendered thirst: 

Bright oases of green, by the dying, are seen 
In alluring mirages, accursed. 

57 



There are broad flowing streams, running cool from its 
beams, 

And they brighten his heat glazed eye, 
So he goads his team on, with his back to the sun. 

To the mocking deceits of the sky. 

But his hopes at length fail, till he catches a sail, 

Drifting out from a harbor of blue; 
Every torture he feels, while his throbbing brain reels, 

'Till this view his lost powers renew. 

There are great castle walls with their white marble halls. 

With their turrets and minarets fair. 
There are bright fountains cool, crowning many a pool. 

Playing high in the life-cursing air. 

His goading is vain, he is dropping his rein. 

He is losing his will to command; 
A low murmured prayer is borne off on the air — 

He's entombed with his team in the sand. 



A STRAY CLOVER AND A STRANGER, 
IN PASADENA. 

As a stranger in a city 
In mute sadness moves along, 
Not a friendly hand extended. 
Not a welcome from the throng. 
He, in spite of costly structures 



58 



Which our modern cities show, 

Is forever longing, sighing, 

For the friends he used to know. 

So while gazing on their marvels, 
That possess no charms for him, 
Come the thoughts of tender fancies 
Till his tell-tale eyelids swim 
In the tribute of affection, 
Which within his soul is stirred, 
And he thinks of old time greetings, 
Which by him no more are heard. 

Thus amidst the throng of wonders 

Of this vast, unequaled West, 

Where, from all the wide world's wardrobe. 

Charming Flora dons her best. 

Did I move among her glories, 

And take in her matchless bloom: 

With delirium of senses 

Did I drink of her perfume. 

Yet, as stranger in a city 

Sadly sighs for friendly eye. 

Did I here in Flora's kingdom 

Still unsatisfied pass by; 

Some sweet flower of home I longed for, 

That my mother used to grow. 

And I searched the gaudy gardens 

For a friend of long ago. 

59 



While thus strolHng and communing, 
Did I see upon a lawn 
A stray blossom of white clover, 
A lone stranger, wrecked, forlorn. 
An unnoticed seed had mingled 
In the blue grass that was sown, 
As a lark with robins straying, 
When its mates had southward flown. 

Not another of its kindred 
Could be found in all that part. 
But I saw in that meek stranger 
A fond idol of my heart. 
Then a flood of recollections 
Swiftly passed me in review, 
An acquaintanceship of childhood 
Did I joyfully renew. 

How I seized that stranded clover, 
Like an ardent lover, kissed; 
And it gave me what I longed for, 
A vague something I had missed, 
While my tears unlocking eyelids 
Stole away to meet my friend. 
And the sweetness of home's meadows 
With this waif appeared to blend. 

Then I pinned it to my bosom, 
With my glad tears, moistened yet, 
And I felt two homesick strangers 
Had at last an old friend met. 
Pasadena, January 25, 1897. 

60 



^VHO SHALL MY COMRADE BE? 

Tearing myself from loved and home, 
As seems to be my destiny, 
I, pausing, question in my room, 
Who shall this morn my comrade be? 
For on these shelves do I behold 
The good and great of bygone days, 
And with the stories they have told 
Blend sw^eetest chimes of modern lays. 

I w^ould not choose those warlike men, 
Whose eyes flash out on history's page; 
I would not read of wars and pain, 
Where man killed brother man in rage. 
These falling leaves my heart should stir, 
Should chase all thoughts of strife away; 
Dear Nature's sweet interpreter 
Shall be my chosen friend to-day. 

One would I have whose gentle words 
Would tell of nature and her charms, 
Of meadows, mountains, brooks, and birds, 
That I might rest as 'neath the arms 
Of some wide-spreading, noble tree. 
Which kindly held its soothing screen 
Between the torrid sun and me. 
If stretched I lay upon the green. 

For I to-day would have sweet rest. 
The toiling ox from yoke is freed : 

61 



And while by labor we are blest, 

A Sabbath day of ease we need, 

In which to seek the quiet shade 

Or listen to the welcome words 

Of those who through their lives have made 

Their presence like the songs of birds. 

Bright Sabbath day, move calmly by. 

Vouchsafe to me the blessed peace 

So symbolized by tranquil sky. 

My heart and mind from care release 

And, all resistless, bear me on 

In perfect unison with thee. 

May I all grovelling thoughts disown. 

My soul by thee would strengthened be. 

Sunday, November 7, 1875. 



ELKHART LAKE, WISCONSIN. 

The weary child when crossed in many little ways, 
Will to its tender mother, crying, turn to find 
Sweet solace for its griefs and counsel in its plays: 
With pouts, its arms around the loving neck entwined 
It listens to the words unknown to weaker ties. 
Till grief dissolves in happiness, and on the breast 
Drooped lids conceal the crystal tell tales of the eyes, 
And gently heaving sigh on sigh it drops to rest. 
And so, dear Mother Nature, does thy elder child 
From strikes and strifes and ceaseless cares of every kind 




Dear Nature's sweet interjireter 
Shall be inv chosen friend to-tlav 



To thee most fondly turn, to be by thee beguiled, 

And in thy loving presence cast all cares behind. 

Dear Elkhart Lake. How often in my younger days 

Have I delight supreme attained, beholding thee. 

How frequently my lips attuned unto thy praise 

Attested then as now, I loved thee ardently ! 

I knew thee well : almost each tree upon thy shore. 

I knew the bar where black and silver bass were found, 

I knew the perch beds, and of both a goodly store 

I caught, rejoicing when our rustic board they crowned. 

Ah ! I was younger then, and when from lowering sky 

The sudden wind came piping o'er the pine wreathed hill, 

In anger lashing thy white billows high, 

I would the storm defy, and row my way at will. 

But now I do not court the tumult and the strife, 
But seek that peace and rest you graciously bestow. 
Enough for me to sit beside my loving wife 
Where spreads this giant birch, uprooted years ago 
So still of life tenacious, bade its roots descend, 
And thrived as men oft do who fill a lowly sphere, 
And while no worldly fame their humble steps attend, 
Their honored name the town and neighborhood revere. 

While thus we sit upon this moss grown root, we hear 

The gentle plashings of an almost ceaseless flow, 

And see two faces in these lambent waters clear 

That from their surface were reflected years ago. 

Yet now this mirror, wife, is certainly untrue. 

How rough these faces are, how smooth they used to be ! 



Time ne'er designed these waves should wrinkles make for 

you 
Nor this white birch should such reflections cast on me. 



But never mind, dear wife. What matters it to know 
That years in spite of us, and of their own accord 
Come creeping on, if cool across the lake but blow 
The winds, and rustling trees their shade afford? 
How restful is this blessed calm ! The sighing pine 
Its healing balsam yields, while these white cedar trees 
Their spicy oil distill with healing most divine 
And tempting proffer us in health bestowing breeze. 

Mark you those well kept kine, close standing in the flood ? 
A study of contentment they. No care or thought ! 
Each grinds in sated mood the all important cud 
And finds that peace which man for centuries has sought. 
How few are their — how few are his essential needs. 
Why do we not forego the prize beyond our reach, 
Our proud ambition curb, strict discipline our greeds 
And profit by the lessons, wise, God's creatures teach ? 

Dear Mother Nature, thou art more than kind to man. 
And holdst in goodly store for his delight and use 
Unnumbered blessings, which without a price he can 
Unto himself appropriate, and would induce 
By all these tempting beauties thou dost lavish so 
That he should come unto these sylvan feasts of thine, 
Where thou specifics sure for many ills bestow, 
And deeply drink these draughts of unintoxant wine. 

64 










S>2 

i 5 



Proud Elkhart Lake. With scarce an eciual in the land. 

I greet thee with the same old tribute of my praise 

As when I first beheld thee in thy wood wreathed band. 

Thy fadeless charms, outliving man's transition days, 

To races yet unborn will benedictions be. 

The same exultant praise will they in turn bestow 

Idiat tribes unknown by us in raptures sang to thee; 

And when, forgotten, they shall sleep, thy waves will flow, 

Elkhart Lake, July 20, 1894. 



65 



Poems of Sentiment 



SPEAK WELL OF YOUR NEIGHBOR. 

Speak well of your neighbor, be just and be true 
In what you may say. in whatever you do. 
Be loath to repeat an unbrotherly word, 
Make sure of the truth of what you have heard. 
A pure, sparkling spring, on its way to the sea. 
By the sewage of cities polluted will be; 
A simple remark, that each gossip retell?^, 
To a scandalous river surprisingly swells. 

Speak well of your neighbor, wherever you can 
Find something for praising in each fellow man. 
In all his good anns kindly help him along. 
To him alone speak when you find him in wrong. 
With gentleness only, no censure nor blame. 
Do not to your fellows his failures proclaim, 
Speak well of your neighbor, live we as we should, 
We, blind to his faults, will search always for good. 
Speak well of your neighbor. If ever misused, 
Be kindly forgiving to those who abused; 
Ever granting to each for his weaknesses shown 
The mantle of charity asked for your own. 
Whoever may wrong you in purse or in name 
The penalty pays in his breast for the same. 
Speak well of your neighbor, before your mind set 
The true Christian motto, "Forgive and Forget.'' 

Nov. 5, 1865. 



CHEERFULNESS. 

As placid lake reflects the sun, 

Which ruffled cannot do, 

Your cheerful face to every one 

Returns like smiles to you. 

The loved, who look to us when night 

Gives respite to our cares, 

Grow stronger when our faces, bright 

Reflect the smiles of theirs. 

Clouds do not melt the winter's snow. 
Nor lift the ice from streams, 
The crystal diamonds fail to flow 
Till warmed by solar beams. 
The nightshade thrives in gloomy meads, 
But roses in the sun. 

And hearts soon grow but noxious weeds 
If smiles their portals shun. 
We turn unto a happy face 
As magnet to its star; 
The frowns that may awhile deface- 
By smiles soon scattered are. 
We to ourselves and others owe 
Kind words and gentleness, 
Whatever kindness we bestow, 
Returns ourselves to bless. 

Feb. i8, 1869. 



70 



WEAR YOUR SMILES WITH YOUR 
SLIPPERS. 

Some men there are^ who when abroad 

With smiles their best clothes don, 

Their frowns and rags at home are stored, 

To be but there put on. 

They tend in offices and stores 

Trade's genial vines with skill, 

But ''genial vines" are barred home's doors, 

Are left to winter kill. 

We husbands should recall the hours. 

Those days of sweet content 

Before these loving wives were ours. 

How we were all intent 

To show devotion, speak their praise, 

To make our presence bright, 

Can we turn back to those dear days 

And say the same to-night? 

Do w^e possess our early zeal. 

Our hearts of former years ; 

Are we so sensitive to feel 

Whatever burdens theirs? 

Or do we from the outer world 

Hide inw^ard gloom and strife, 

That all our venom may be hurled 

At little ones and wife? 

We each have troubles, naught can save 
Our human lot from care, 

71 



But nothing makes us all so brave 
To overcome despair 
As meeting with that smiling face. 
When we to home draw near, 
Receive and give that old embrace 
That once we held so dear. 

Feb. 23, 1869. 



HOLLO, BILL! HOLLO, ED! 

I met a friend on the street to-day 

With whom I used in my youth to play. 

His face wore lines of the heavy care 

Which most these times are constrained to wear. 

His boyhood frame with the years was bent, 

His head hung down, upon thought intent, 

And I doubt not if the truth were told 

I seemed to him as perplexed and old. 

We met, I said, and in rushing by 

We caught, it happened, each other's eye. 

A smile illumined his facial shroud. 

As sunbeams burst through an April cloud 

When greetings old of my "Hollo, Bill," 

Escaped my lips, and he stood there still, 

While youth's salute, now a long time fled, 

Returned he in his "Hollo, Ed.'' 

We stood and talked a minute or so, 
Of Bill and Ed that we used to know; 

72 



We each with smiles had a word to say, 
Both laughed at the other's locks of gray; 
Recalled the scenes of our early days. 
Of old-time mates and of old-time plays, 
And when we parted and said "Good-bye," 
I somehow felt, yet I know not why. 
As if with "Bill'' I had left my pack, 
I missed the load from my weary back. 

As streams will bear to the distant sea 
AMiat the mountain torrents may set free. 
So for Bill and Ed as we met to-day, 
The tide-gates swung of the far away : 
With hosts of fancies that seldom greet 
Old business men on a crowded street ; 
And on its flood swept away in throngs 
Young faces, dear, and snatches of songs, 
Till shouts of boys did I catch at play: 
While in my mind I could hear them say. 
Saluting one with a curly head. 
As rushing forth, with a "Hollo, Ed." 

Mv mind, engrossed with its business care. 
At once withdrew to a channel where 
No more I heeded the tramp of feet — 
The noise and whirl of the busy street — 
I lost all sight of the moving crowd. — 
I heard no longer the din so loud — 
Our town was seeing before it grew. 
Its houses small and its people few. 

73 



When homes and stores unpainted and bare, 
Were thrown about almost anywhere, 
With strips of prairie stretching between, 
Not marred by walks was its trampled green. 
Where balls we threw nnannoyed by fear 
Of breaking windows, as none were near. 
Where "prairie schooners" their anchors cast 
With tempting fruit displayed at half-mast. 

I greetings have from my friends each day. 

As rush we on in a business way, 

But be they nods or a pleasant smile, 

The one prized most for a long, long while. 

Was Bill's this morn when he, boy like, said — 

My hail returning, with "Hollo, Ed." 

March 12, 1870. 



"WE ARE SOON FORGOTTEN ^A^HEN 
WE ARE GONE." 

When I am dead, — for die I must, — 
This quickened clay returns to dust, — 
What will I leave, which proof shall give 
That such a man did ever live ? 
The stone that marks my final rest. 
What more than this shall be exprest : 
"Once such a being lived and died, 
But what he was or did beside. 
Did he mankind more curse or bless, 
Is left for you who read to guess." 

The vain man's life contains this dread, 

"We're soon forgotten when we're dead," 

And leave no trace that we have been 

Among earth's myriads of men. 

The world will keep its wonted course. 

Unmindful it sustained a loss ; 

Some cherished friends kind words will say, 

When they in turn must pass away. 

The men are few whose names are known 
When daisies on their graves are grown. 
For hearts that hold in fond embrace 
Their words of love and deeds of grace, 
Are tablets that they only read, 
The record ends when they are dead. 
And when they die, as die they will, 
Those, who their vacant places fill, 

75 



Will never ask who went before, 
Enough to know, they are no more. 

And yet our sleep will be as sweet, 

Though pressed our graves by strangers' feet, 

Who may, in careless monotone 

Read fading words on modest stone, 

Our age and name, where born, w^hen died. 

Then listlessly to step aside. 

No thought of us as of a friend, 

When life in pleasant sleep shall end. 

April. 1879. 



CHARITY. 

Above the dust of others 
Speak not of faults they've shown. 
That we may ask our brothers 
Their silence for our own. 



SELFISH PRAYERS. 

Oh, wiio in his friendship so crnel shonld be 

As pray the Dear Father to existence prolong 

When, l)hnded by tears, we no longer can see 

The charms we believe to our being belong? 

When sickness and pain, disappointment and strife, 

Environments sure of existence below, 

Exceeding the pleasures attendant on life 

Would pray for the cross, when He crown would bestow. 

The Father knows best when our journey should end. 
Too often our prayers breathe a selfish desire. 
We weigh our own loss when we part with a friend, 
Instead of their gain when He calleth them higher. 
We fancy our love is unselfish and true. 
Would willingly sacrifice self for their weal, 
But when the Good Father, their welfare in view, 
Releases from bondage, how sad do we feel. 

The Father is Love, while His wisdom extends 
Beyond the vain reach of our poor, finite mind ; 
And when in that wisdom He calleth our friends. 
Assured of their good, should our hearts be resigned. 
These years we are here are but drops in the deep. 
The ages sweep on in an unending flow. 
And why He in love can ordain us to weep, 
Those infinite years will assuredly show. 

January 6th, 1896. 



77 



PARTING WITH SCHOOLMATES. 

Here sitting alone in my study to-day, 
And watching the snow drifts in rain disappear, 
My mind travels back to a morning in May, 
Revealing where eyes have failed many a year. 
It sees my old comrades in study and sport, 
Who melted so quickly when school was dismissed; 
It hears the boys shout as they roughly disport, 
The sighs of the girls as they each other kissed. 

How changed are they now, yet so similar then 
The wisest could scarcely a difference trace. 
So nearly the same were those embryo men. 
The girls being cast in the one mould of grace. 
Would we be as happy, if we could now scan 
Through guises that Time has so tenderly thrown 
Around the young boy? Could we read in the man 
The chum who in youth had but happiness known? 

'Tis better perhaps that so little we know 

Of each when engaged in our fight with the Fates. 

Success of the few would but seldom bestow 

Enough of good cheer to unfortunate mates, 

While envy perchance would but add to the grief 

Of those who, unfitted for life's heavy care, 

Succeeding in nothing, would find no relief 

As they press with bare feet the sharp thorns of despair. 

I cannot imagine that SHE could grow old, 

The prettiest girl that I ever had met. 

Whose cheeks vied with peaches, her ringlets with gold, 

7S 



Whose smiles turned to blushes which haunt me so yet. 
Pray ask me not why, when I say I believe 
That bright little girl — well, no matter her name — 
When school was dismissed did for some reason grieve, 
And went to her home sadder far than she came. 

Where is she to-day? What has been her life's fate? 

My foolish heart yet questions once in a while ; 

Has SHE ever thought of those days, and the mate 

Whose absence brought sadness, whose presence a smile? 

I late saw her home ; what a change in the place ; 

No kindred nor friends ever enter the door ; 

The strangers now there are a different race; 

Those charms once delightful pervade it no more. 

Decay and destruction are everywhere stamped ; 

Rank burdocks will flourish wdiere violets die, 

Those broad spreading maples, where rainbows encamped 

And left their rich robes when ascending the sky. 

Whose lambent flames filled the blue vault with their glow, 

Whose soft torches burned at the year's open grave, 

The ax of the vandal long since has laid low ; 

No service nor sentiment ever could save. 

Then melt, oh ye snows, in the cold, cheerless rain. 
As scholars that melted that morning in May, 
The school is dismissed ! We shall meet not again ! 
But thoughts of that morning forever will stay. 
I see those old friends as they were to me then, 
Those innocent girls, and those rolicking boys. 



I hardly can think they are women and men, 

Who have finished their books and forgotten their toys. 

March, 1883. 



LIFE'S BROKEN CHIMES. 

Once standing in a belfry gray, 

The chimes above began to play. 

The whirl of wheels, the deaf'ning peals 

Went through my head with such a roar 

As nothing ever had before. 

'Ts this noise made to charm the towm?" 
I musing said as I rushed down. 
As off I drew my wonder grew, 
"Where can the boasted music be 
When bells thus clang discordantly?" 

Beside a stream I later strolled ; 
The sun had set in drifts of gold; 
A hush profound reigned all around, 
As in the church a mile away 
yiet young and old, to praise, and pray. 

Then floated down the evening air. 

As angels chanting vesper prayer, 

O'erwhelming me with melody, 

Sw^eet tones, which soothed each care to rest, 

As nestling babe on mother's breast. 

80 




Beside the stream 1 later strolled, 
The sun had set in drifts of t^old; 



The bells of morn now peal again; 
But, stealing through the wooded glen, 
Those jarring notes from iron throats. 
Through distance blend in one sweet chord, 
A fitting service to the Lord. 

Aly feet, 'tis true, still pressed the sod, — 
My heart, my voice were raised to God. 
The angels bright saw with delight 
Though of their presence unaware — 
The morning scofYer bend in prayer. 

With joy I drank that concord true, 

And, sighing when the chimes were through : 

Aly soul w-as chained, and I remained 

As if to catch from yonder shore 

The voices loved, long gone before. 

I turned again to that quaint town. 

Its streets, alone, walked up and down ; 

Saw bliss and woe together flow^; 

'Mid hymns and prayers heard oaths arise ; 

Saw smiles on lips, and tears in eyes. 

I saw wdiat is not understood ; 
Saw death the useful take, and good; 
The old abused, the weak misused ; 
Saw right and industry go down ; 
Saw heaven, awhile, on virtue frown. 



81 



"Oh! why," I asked, "should such things be? 
What good subserveth misery? 
Why crime and woe be prospered so? 
Why sinless suffer want and pain?" 
These queries old I asked again. 

'Twas then those bells an answer made, 
Replies to all and each conveyed. 
As their harsh din had softened been, — 
Each tone required for perfect chime, 
At length had merged in chords sublime. 

They said all discord, grief and fear 
Would sometime, somewhere disappear; 
They said, some day, would all hear play 
Life's chimes, that seem so out of tune, 
As sweet as songs of larks in June. 

Ring out, ye chimes, from belfry gray, 
Ring out for loved ones far away. 
Who hear no more on that far shore — 
Life's discords sad, which we still hear. 
From bells of belfrys now too near. 

January 4th, 1886. 



82 



TO A FRIEND UPON THE DEATH 
OF HIS WIFE 

Suggested by tlic Remark She Made Shortly Hefore. 

"Shall we recognize each other in heaven?" 

I know how vain is human speech 

To solace those who lose a friend. 

The stricken heart no words can reach. 

To it no comfort can extend. 

Yet yesterday did our feet press 

The darkened vale which you now tread, 

Then let us sympathy express; 

We too have mourned beside our dead. 

Oh ! sometimes when we weep by those 
Who leave us in our bitter tears, 
Before their eyes forever close, 
A smile on their dear face appears, 
As if upon them beamed a light 
From yon bright world of mysteries. 
Wherein they caught enraptured sight 
Of friends they loved so much in this. 

And oft we wonder, when their eyes 

Are opened to eternal light. 

If they will know beyond the skies 

Those hidden from their mortal sight. 

Will they take up the broken chain, 

Whose links with tears lie rusted here, 

Unite the links and live again 

With those whom they once held so dear. 



Will our companions older grow, 
Or brow of age be smooth and fair, 
The eyes beam bright, the locks of snow 
Be turned to childhood's glossy hair? 
The child perchance who early dies, 
Through changes great we undergo, 
Will it its parents recognize? 
Its young mates, in the aged know? 

Ah ! yes. The heart doth answer give. 
No change upon the SOUL can fall. 
Throughout all phases it will live. 
The same, same likeness bear to all. 
How dear the thought, we there shall be 
The same true friends we are to-day. 
No change can come to you or me 
Which shall that likeness take away. 

Thus often as I think this o'er 
And call the absent back to me. 
Commune with loved ones gone before, 
And close my eyes their smiles to see, 
The heavens seem to drop to earth. 
My soul takes hold of things above. 
And learns to prize as greatest worth 
The deathless reach of human love. 

And thus, my friend, with moistened eyes 
I see the loss we've both sustained, 
While far beyond the heavy skies 

84 



The union see of friend with friend. 
We cannot change God's Holy will, 
Cannot recall the "Gone before." 
But how it lifts the clouds, to feel 
That friends are friends on yonder shore. 

Oct. 17, 1886. 



OUR FAITH AND STRENGTH. 

Our hearts are brave, our faith is strong 
When health is good, and, with the tide, 
Beneath fair skies we glide along, 
With Hope's bright l)lossoms on each side 
With friends to give us loving cheer, 
With smiles to brighten when depressed. 
With words to warn of dangers near, 
And hands to aid when needing rest. 

When memory of the blissful past 

Renews the joys already felt, 

The clouds which fear before us cast 

With golden promise seem to melt. 

Ah ! then so brave and strong we are, 

We do not ask for helping hand 

To lift us o'er the threat'ning bar 

And guide us safely to the land. 

But let our health begin to fail, 
Dark clouds eclipse the sunny skies ; 

85 



Or 'gainst the tide attempt to sail, 
See dear ones close their weary eyes ; 
Let Hope's bright blossoms turn to dust, 
Let us upon ourselves, alone, 
For strength be forced at length to trust, 
We find, alas ! that it is gone ; 

We learn too late 'twas not our heart 
That made us once so true and brave; 
'Twas not our faith that did impart 
The strength to stem both tide and wave. 
But cloudless skies that bent above, 
And hopes that blossomed ever near, 
And friends whose tender words and love 
Forestalling death, brought heaven here. 

Dec. 26, 1886. 



FLOWERS AND FAITH. 

There are flowers concealing their fragrance so sweet 
Which we scarcely detect in the brilliance of day. 
But when broken by storms or are crushed 'neath our feet. 
They their virtues reveal as their life ebbs away. 

So the trials that on us are heavily laid. 
Oft unlock what our hearts unsuspected may hold ; 
In the fragrance of faith, is a courage displayed 
That requires the crushing of hopes to unfold. 

June 6, 1906. 

86 



THE UNSEEN GIVER. 

The sweetest song I ever heard 

Was from an unseen singer ; 

An anthem of a Httle bird, 

A tall oak's fearless dinger; 

It warbled like a mellow flute, 

Now shrill as piccalo. 

Then dropping as an air touched lute. 

Its notes were sweet and low. 

The voices of the birds were stilled, 
Like me were they delighted; 
The song of each he sweetly trilled, 
Not one of them was slighted. 
The lark, the robin and the thrush, 
The mocking bird and linnet, 
All heard the song, with happy hush, 
And heard their own songs in it. 

I looked above in vain to see 
The bird such gift revealing. 
The rustling leaves upon the tree 
Its hiding place concealing. 
Around in circles did I pace. 
Each circle larger making; 
The songster fled in silent haste. 
Both song and tree forsaking. 

I learned a lesson there and then 
I trust may be abiding, 

87 



When I shall hear such songs again 
The bird may keep his hiding; 
My thoughts will in the song be lost, 
And as a guest invited, 
Will not observe the garb of host 
While with his song delighted. 

Our life's best songs are often hushed 

By useless inquisition: 

As had that singing bird been flushed 

By questioning disposition. 

They wisest are who do not scan 

The mysteries Time's evolving, 

With thanks accept the good they can, 

To Him defer the solving. 

The richest blessings men enjoy, 
An unseen hand's bestowing. 
We may not learn by whom, or why 
W^ould bliss come with the knowing? 
Accept with gratitude the gift 
Though unbeknown the bringer ; 
The song itself our soul should lift, 
Though hidden l)e the singer. 

What if the hand be not revealed, 

Nor bird that gives the chorus. 

The love that prompts is not concealed, 

The melody is o'er us. 

We hush the songs we love to hear 




The sweetest song 1 ever heard 
Was from an unseen singer. 



In our unwise endeavor; 

The song is proof a singer's near, 

The gift — that there's a giver. 

May 20, 1888. 



WELCOME MEMORY LIKE THE 
SONGS OF BIRDS. 

I know now what the wnld birds say 

As south they flying sing. 

They promise as they speed away 

To come again in spring; 

And bring with them the same sweet strains 

We heard in sunny glades, 

When these broad fields of ripened grains 

Were rich in tender blades. 

Their promises will cherished be, 
Will always solace bring. 
While memory preserves for me 
The songs I've heard them sing. 
And this the lesson we should learn 
From sky and waving bough, 
While waiting pleasures to return, 
Re-live in past ones now. 

Yet not alone with songs of birds 
Are hearts and minds best filled. 
With noble deeds and loving words 

Sit 



Are they more deepy thrilled. 

With songs of birds and deeds of love 

Store well the mind and soul ; 

Mind like the bird will soar above, 

And souls thus reach their goal. 

Kind deed or word is like a bird, 

With music all its own, 

And if at times no song is heard, 

Think not the bird has flown; 

Sweet songs, like noble thoughts and deeds. 

Oft run in minor keys. 

Such deeds bear fruit like golden seeds. 

As songs from birds, none sees. 

Then if we'd welcome the return 

Of thoughts like birds in May, 

Be sure like them to only learn 

The sweetest roundelay. 

As sweetest songs will always be 

Most welcome to our ears, 

The noblest deeds will memory 

Preserve for coming years. 

August 14th, 1889. 



90 



THE ORGANIST AND DEATH. 

The skilled musician seems most carelessly to play; 

To quickly touch far distant stops and .keys 

Without a single thought ; and in an aimless way ; 

Expecting by his movements, strange, to please. 

At times among the higher notes his fingers dwell, 

Or stop adjusts to modulate a tone; 

Descending now — the bass pours forth its trembling swell, 

And all the distant chords unite as one. 

The organist and Death do both perform alike. 

Death sends his shafts in likened careless way, 

As if he did not know who of us all to strike. 

Who to his aimless darts should fall a prey. 

To-day some "little bud of promise" fades and goes, 

The strong man in his prime is stricken down, 

While trembling age whose lengthened days seem near theii 

close 
Perchance for painful years, may totter on. 

We cannot see the wisdom, nor divine the cause 

In taking thence the promising and true, 

While violators base of nature and her laws, 

Are often left their evil to pursue. 

But as we cannot tell why harmony should flow 

When skilled musician strikes each distant chord. 

Let us have faith, that we may sometime, somewhere, know 

That Death attests perfection in the Lord. 

August 4, 1889. 

91 



ON A SWEET PEA BOUQUET. 

There's a vase of sweet peas on my table, 
A delightful perfume in the air. 
And in closing my eyes I am able 
To surround me by visions most rare. 
I can see a bright dress of pink gingham, 
And a sun-bonnet made of the same ; 
And the beautiful girl that is in them. 
With a blush putting sweet peas to shame. 

In the depths of that pink gingham shade 
I can see the keen twinkle of eyes ; 
Ruby lips that seem never afraid. 
When thus shielded from sudden surprise. 
I can hear the girl's innocent laughter, 
And the challenge — a low spoken word — 
The report which succeeded soon after 
I am sure that we two only heard. 

Rosy cheeks mantled suddenly brighter, 
And four hands were in loving caress. 
While two hearts in a moment beat lighter, 
One beneath a new pink gingham dress. 
From her thoughts the dear girl early banished 
The young rogue who so loved her to tease; 
Both the bonnet and gingham dress vanished 
But they meet now again in '"sweet peas." 

They recall all the happy young faces, 
Cordial greetings so cheery of yore, 

92 



Every charm of my life's sunny places 
Do they fully and sweetly restore. 
They portray the old dense tangled wildwood, 
The bright visions of far-stretching prairie, 
Every innocent sport of my childhood 
With the beautiful image of Mary. 

Sept. 30, 1890. 



FRESH BUTTERMILK. 

Will I "Take something," Jo? I don't care if I do; 
'Tis seldom I drink, mighty seldom with you; 
Now what will I take ? I suppose you don't care ; 
What placard is that staring down at us there? 
"Pure buttermilk, fresh every day in the year." — 

Why, Jo! You don't say they sell buttermilk here? 

"What's up with you, Bill? Why in time don't you drink 

Time's what I am drinking; now, can't a man think? 

This buttermilk, Jo, mingles pleasure wath pain. 

And takes me way back to the old farm in Maine. 

I see in this mug all mixed up with the whe> 

Old scenes I'd not thought of for many a day. 

Come Jo, let us move to the corner where we 

Can talk over times dear to you and to me. 

W^e'll take our mugs with us; just fill them once more, 

\Ve'll move out of range of these men and the door. 

Here, waiter's a quarter to humor my will. 

Then, Here's to vou, comrade. "And here's to you, Bill." 



jo, isn't it funny that often old men 

By trifles are carried to childhood again? 

1 felt rather cheap as I entered the door, 

And hoped to meet no one I'd met with before. 

It might look as though Bill was drifting away. 

I thought to myself;, What would dear mother say 

If told that her Bill was once seen in a bar? 

I always mean, Jo, that no matter how far 

I wander from home and away from her sight 

To do as she'd have me, the square thing, and right. 

Then, Jo, you'll excuse me, if now it seems queer, 

A rough chap like me declines whisky and beer. 

That buttermilk, straight should produce the effect, 

I know by your looks that you think you detect. 

I ain't homesick, Jo, but I come mighty near 

The farm as I sit and drink buttermilk here. 

1 see the old cows, Sukie, Brindle and Jane, 

With White Face and Starbright and my Beauty as plain 

As when barefoot I drove them away to the lot. 

And filled the log trough when the weather was hot. 

The rickety pump was with strap-iron bound. 

Untidy and bashful it hid in the ground. 

The old handle wabbled, it wheezed and it squeaked. 

From top to the bottom in every joint leaked. 

The roughly hewn trough had grown rotten and thin, 

Leaked more water out than I thought had run in, 

A black puddle making in which the cows stood, 

The swarms of flies fighting as well as they could, 



94 




4^ 



c 






:3 rn 
o <u 




Each tossing her head, slowly chewing her cud. 
Her tail in the air, and her feet in the mud. 

A hard maple gave by the bars a good shade ; 

The Lord I thought had it for that purpose made. 

The bark was worn smooth as if rubbed with a file, 

By cows, themselves scratching, like friends of Argyle, 

And butterflies, yellow and restless, would come 

As village boys meet at the tap of a drum. 

I used to believe it was more than a dream, 

The cows from them stole all the gold for their cream. 

I see the tall churn, I can hear the faint splash, 

As, weary and counting, I lifted the dash 

And watched for the "coming" of one golden flake, 

That promise of rest for the small arms that ache. 

I see my dear mother, with sweet, winning ways, 
My work always paying with kisses and praise. 
Those kisses, believe me, are on my cheeks yet. 
Her brave, noble words I will never forget. 
How well I remember that morning in May, 
When with her last blessing I started away. 
I hadn't a cold, but my throat seemed to swell. 
No word could I speak when I kissed her farewell. 
Think you I was blest in the words that she spoke 
With tears in her eyes and heart nearly broke! 
Why, bless me. Old Jo ! in my dealing with men. 
Those words are my mottoes, and so shall remain. 

Then, Jo, is it strange that I always decline 
To drink with my comrades, beer, whisky or wine ; 
Or why my best thoughts go wand'ring afar 
While drinking fresh buttermilk here at a bar? 
August, 1899. 

95 



WAITING AT THE GATE FOR GRANDPA. 

Along the country road they drove 

In June's most bahny weather, 

The new farm wagon filled with love, 

The old and young together. 

The broad, front seat was graced with springs, 

Behind — an old arm chair, 

\Miere to and fro — the grandpa swings, 

As bird's nest in the air; 

While near his feet was fresh made bed 

Of robes and clean oat straw, 

\\niereon are laughing children spread, 

^^'ith joy unknown before. 

]\Iid songs and laughter, jokes and glee, 

The horses speed their way. 

And stolid people smile to see 

A wagon load so gay. 

The farmer driver to his wife 

Loquacious grows once more. 

For seldom in their married life 

Has talked he, as before 

That blest event — their wedding day. 

Just fifteen years ago, — 

Since hard worked farmers little say, 

Few compliments bestow. 

But this bright day is set apart 

To join their scattered friends. 

A day when words reveal the heart 

As hand to hand extends. 

96 




lush! lanes sweet voice is calling' me. 
What makes my (irandpa latel" 



They near the home where SHE was born, 

Now seated by his side. 

She sees the bloom of crab and thorn, 

As when a happy 1)ride. 

The robin's welcome song is heard, 

The song of years ago, 

As if he were the very bird 

The young girl used to know. 

Her mother by the open door 

Stands by her father's side 

While by them both, the children pour 

With noise that none may chide. 

Fair Jane is first to reach the gate, 

Which widely open swings ; 

The older youngsters cannot wait; 

Each from the wagon springs. 

No toll is by the gate guard missed 

As they go trooping through. 

By all girl cousins she is kissed, 

Poor boys, I pity you. 

They stop beside the wagon-block. 

Each carefully descends. 

While children round the grandpa flock. 

And Jane his wants attends. 

He thanks her for her thoughtful care, 

And clasps the hands of those 

Who place for him his easy chair 

Beneath the climbing rose. 

They each and all together speak, 

97 



They each and all reply, 

The smile that mantles every cheek 

Mocks tears in every eye. 

The day with games and sports is passed. 

Reluctant though to go, 

The parting hour has come at last. 

The evening shadows grow. 

Upon the porch does grandpa sit 

With Jane upon his knee; 

He listens to her words of wit, 

Enjoys her pleasantry. 

The sun-veiled stars are seen to shine, 

The frogs their tunes begin, 

They leave the porch, the fragrant vine, 

And shelter find within. 

An hour spend in converse there 

Before they seek their bed; 

The grandpa led in praise and prayer, 

The holy Bible read ; 

Then dwelling on the happy theme, 

How this communion here 

Of those they held in such esteem 

Foreshadowed one more dear. 

When he and they would loved ones meet. 

Who sailed from sunset's shore, 

He sank in silence to his seat 

And spoke to them no more. 

They saw a tremor through his frame. 

His lips incline to move, 



They heard him breathe that gentle name, 

The Jane he did so love, 

And fainter still they heard, 'T see 

An open, pearly gate, 

Hark! Jane's sweet voice is calling me, 

'What makes my grandpa late ?' " 

M^y 12, 1891. 



HOPE FOR THE BEST. 

Yield not yourself to spirit of complaining; 
As losses come, count blessings still remaining; 
With heart and mind to brighter views inclining, 
You'll gather strength, that's lost in sad repining. 
All through life's loom, with griefs and tribulations. 
Run God's own threads of lofty compensations. 



January 2, 1899. 



LOOK FOR SUNSHINE, NOT FOR CLOUDS. 

Look not for things of which you can complain, 
Nor watch for clouds, unless in want of rain. 
But search ye rather what the heart may cheer, 
Then life's rough road much smoother will appear. 



March 30, 1899. 



LOFa 



THE SENTIMENTAL BUSINESS MAN. 

Would any suspect from the business man's ways 

That sentiment ever his callous heart sways ? 

Works havoc with figures, with pencil and pen, 

Unfits him for duties, makes boys of old men? 

We strive to avoid it, yet once in a while 

It renders us captives, with tears, or a smile, 

Till ledgers grow yellow, their figures so blurred 

We put on our hat. Without saying a word 

We rush from our office, out onto the street, 

Not seeing a person we happen to meet, 

Though many we pass whom we long years have known, 

Yet hurry along, self absorbed and alone. 

Alone did I tell you? Not quite, my old chap. 

You think it is so, but you've no such mishap, 

For hosts of odd fancies are walking w^ith you, 

With old faces hiding the presence of new. 

You guess you are tired, are needing a rest., 

A sign you are captured, that thing 'neath your vest 

You considered an engine, a filter, or fount. 

To keep you in health — of no other account^ 

Has conquered at length : very sheepish you know 

You look, as again to the office you go. 

Conceive an excuse why a respite to take. 

And laugh at the queer ones you finally make. 

"A shortness of breath." "A sharp pain in the breast." 

"The doctor," you say, "recommends a month's rest." 

You can't understand how the old man should know 

You're homesick, and blush on his telling you so, — 

100 



But bless him for bidding you "take the first train, 
Go back to the scenes of your childhood again." 

You reach the dear spot on a beautiful morn, 

The home where yourself and your sisters were born. 

Delight thrills your soul, though most ready to cry 

Your smiles and your tears so each other belie. 

You rush to the barn, you climb up the broad bay, 

Filled half to the roof with the sweet scented hay; 

Turn hand-springs and roll in the dim, spacious mows 

Where hay you "pitched down" for the horses and cows, 

While scent of the clover bloom burdened the air, 

Like incense ascending from altars of prayer. 

The proud chanticleer you see strutting below, 

Some rival defying with insolent crow. 

When cackle of hens announce their "last lays" 

He encores to the echo with vocative praise. 

Again do you go with the pitchfork and rake. 

Combine the three windrows, the haycocks to make; 

Ignoring the "spider" that men now bestride, 

As horses ''make hay" while they lazily ride. 

You pitch on the load till you pant like a hound. 

Climb up for a ride, with half swing and half bound. 

Your heart growing faint as you wind up the hill. 

And wonder when up, that the load is on still. 

You trample the hay and in "mowing away" 
Suspicion of work is united with play. 
With hands sorely blistered, with clothing wet through. 
You vow the first load is the last you will do. 

101 



You start for the house, and in strolHng draw nigh. 
It seems very small, yet you cannot tell why. 
Near by is the well with its high reaching sweep. 
Down into its depths you impulsively peep. 
You never would know that the face you behold 
Is that of the boy, now be whiskered and old. 

You turn from the well, and you hear a sweet bird, 

With tears in your eyes, with your heart gently stirred. 

You pause at the porch of your boyhood once more; 

How flutters your heart as you enter the door. 

The matron who greets you, a warm hand extends, 

You feel you are still in the presence of friends, 

But faces you cherished forever have fled. 

Your sisters are married, your parents are dead. 

You stroll through the house like a man in a trance ; 

You WOULD love to cry did you have but the chance. 

How strange seem the rooms as you slowly pass through, 

PENATES of strangers are kettles to you. 

Their LARES, old tables, cheap lounges and chairs, 

Not one, as you think, but in need of repairs; 

You long for the garret, would see it again, 

You climb the steep stairs, where you oft heard the rain 

Beat evening tattoos on the shingles o'er head, 

A lullaby drone by a tired boy's bed. 

Remembrances haunt you like shadowy dreams; 
Here life all around you in everything seems. 
That cradle you rocked in, that little low chair, 
Tied here with a string, or by tin fastened there; 

102 



Old trunks without covers, exposing to view 

Clothes tattered and faded, adored so when new : 

Tin soldiers unarmed, perhaps minus their heads, 

An unmounted hobby horse, runnerless sleds. 

The books which you studied, the little cracked slate. 

The algebra near it, you used so to hate, 

The mind of no scholar can ever explain 

How varied the sentiments attics contain : 

Each object a comrade with something to say 

No mortal can tell in so pleasant a way. 

Revealing a face in a shadowy frame. 

Recalling a voice, softly speaking your name — 

Processions of playmates of youth's happy years — 

Witlj smiles greeting this one, and that one with tears. 

As this panorama of childhood you view 

You grow sentimental, which never will do. 

Beside the broad chimney you see the old gun. 

You know when a boy you thought it such fun 

To tramp through the meadows, to hunt in the grove, 

Each singing bird sparing, each innocent dove. 

You start to shoot squirrels, but seeing them play 

High up in the oaks where they chatter away 

You lay your gun down, creeping under the trees 

You watch their free gambols while taking your ease. 

When being well rested you go to the brook, 
Without a suspicion of pole, line, or hook. 
Your heart is too tender for early time plays. 
You wish to kill nothing, but just want to laze. 

103 



To squirrels and troiits you a respite will give. 

Your happy young days now again would you live. 

How glad are you then for that quiet, alone ; 

How quickly you find all your business cares flown ; 

You lounge "neath the oak, which the sun from you hides. 

With the brook playing tunes on the stones as it glides, 

You soon fall to dreaming, your heart is still king 

And captures the past in your presence to bring. 

You hear a sweet song, with a heart in the tune, 

You see a dear girl in a far away June, 

The bonnet she wore o'er a forehead so fair, 

The glance of her eyes 'neath her beautiful hair. 

You remember the boy you hoped was her beau, 

How happy you were when you found it was so. 

You think how you sighed when you from her must stir, 

How every perfection was centered in her. 

You now do not care if the whole world should know 

She still is your girl, and you yet are her beau; 

You see in the boys and the girls by your side 

The likeness of bridegroom, or image of bride. 

July i8, 1899. 



104 



THE AUCTION CRIERS. 

Among my early recollections are the Town Criers, "Old 
Black Pete" McHenry and "Black George" White, who not 
only cried for stray children but to advertise our Auction 
Rooms. I take the liberty of inserting here a fragment from 
my Early Reminiscences. 

The winter's wind now beats the falling rain 
From weeping clouds against my window pane, 
As I recall those "Ethiopian Clouds," 
Whose bells and voices drew the rustic crowds 
Along the walks and dimly lighted street. 
To hear their songs, which oft they must repeat. 
They seem to haunt me, those pathetic strains ; 
Though lost the words, the weird thought remains. 

I wish to-day those words I still might know, 
That Black Pete sang, so many years ago. 
His soul seemed striving through a broken heart 
Inspired by Hope, to still perform its part. 
That wife, and child, the feeble mother, gray, 
Might all in safety some day break away 
From chains which he, through God, had left afar 
And meet with him beneath the Polar star. 

1890. 



10") 



Occasional Poems 



REUNION OF THE FORT DEARBORN 
SCHOOLMATES. 

Reunion of the Fort Dearborn Schoolmates of Mrs. 
George A. Ingalls, nee Mary Church, at her residence, Oak 
Park, Thursday evening, May 12, 1882. 

Mary asked if I'd meet you, old schoolmates to-night, 
My lips answered yes, throbbed my heart "with delight; 
While memory mirrored the years, as a glass. 
Rebuilt the old school room, recalled the old class. 
I stood in Fort Dearborn, its white Palisade, 
Saw soldiers "Fall in," for morning parade, 
And when at "Break Ranks," the last one was gone, 
I played with you girls on the well-trodden lawn. 

I saw the long barracks, as seen by me then. 

Well whitewashed without, uninviting within. 

I saw the stone lighthouse, its keeper, his wife, 

Their shadows well bent with the burdens of life: 

His horse which you rode, when you should be in school. 

Defying the teacher, while breaking her rule. 

Beheld the square block-house, the flag in the breeze. 

The three honey locusts, those giants of trees, 

Whose shelter enticed you full many a day. 

In semblance of study, to swing and to ])lay : 

I saw the brass cannon, diminutive ball, 

Leavenworth's garden, guard boxes and all. 

I saw the young officer, whom you adored. 

Though true to girl's nature, you swore you abhorred, 

109 



The little pig placed on his table one noon, 
Wrapped up with great skill, that it die not too soon, 
I saw the Lieutenant, his package cut loose, 
The pig, ink and paper mixed up "like the deuce," 
Then on the floor scatter, while he in his chair 
Drowned laughter of girls as his oaths tilled the air. 
Recalled how his strategy came into play 
As inviting you rowing the very next day, 
'You thoughtlessly went as you oft had before. 
He kept you till dark, half a mile from the shore — 
Our plain barrack school room, in memory saw, 
The stairs we climbed up to the porched second floor. 
I remembered the room, the first south, on the west, 
And how a young scholar (not one of the best) 
Inclined to such mischief as any in town — 
Wrenched out the key bricks, let the fireplace down. 
The soot and the ashes filled school room and air, 
The garments of girls and boys with despair; 
The teacher — God bless her — was partial to me, 
And dusted my jacket as clean as could be. 

The trees she kept pruned in garden and lawn. 

The shrubbery, even was mostly all gone, 

But do not imagine I deemed her a witch 

For sowing her seeds with the aid of a switch. 

But bushes and trees grace no more the "Reserve," 

No signs of those days do the present preserve. 

All vanished the scenes to our memory dear, 

Those lo\'ed panoramas no longer appear. 

Where now are those soldiers? The Old Fort is gone. 

110 



The Light House no more cheers the sailors forlorn. 

The Block House and Barracks, the white palisade, 

The flagstaff on which was "Old Glory" displayed. 

All, all have departed; our homes even, fled, 

The wings of oblivion over them spread. 

Farewell to the teacher, the books and the slate: 

The gallant Lieutenant, may the goddess of Fate 

Have ever through life been as kind and as true 

In her treatment of him, as in those days were you. 

Farewell to the scholars we never more see, 

Or seeing, know not who on earth they may be. 

In walking the streets of our marvelous mart, 

Where pulsates the crowd like the throb of the heart. 

Where smiles of a comrade, or grasp of the hand 

Are scarce as gold nuggets in deserts of sand. 

Where faces of strangers outnumber the stars, 

And those of our friends are as distant as Mars, 

I'm sometimes impressed as I hurry along 

With a face that I meet in the midst of the throng. 

It seems to be, somehow, not just what it ought, 

Scarce looks like the one in the attic of thought, 

I wrinkles discern, I'd forgotten were there; 

I never had noticed that gray in the hair. 

I know by her looks she is trying to place 

The who, which and what of my questioning face. 

My name she's forgotten, she once knew it well, 

But girls changing theirs you never can tell. 

Save Mary or Maggie, Matilda or Bess. 

Give it up at the start, for you never can guess, 

111 



As the beaus you thought theirs, they had early outgrown, 
Other names they accepted or clung to their own. 

We meet almost strangers, we long ago friends, 

For as our large city still further extends, 

We come and w^e go in our different ways. 

But seldom to meet as in young, village days. 

To hostess and host in our thanks we unite 

For this thoughtful reunion so filled with delight. 

For dropping Time's ladder from memory's wall. 

That days of Lang Syne we again may recall. 

Again can live over the village born joys, 

When you matrons were girls, we old fellow^s boys. 

When we w^ere all children, yet old as the Town, 

Whose marvelous growth gives it world-wide renown. 

Then here's to old schoolmates, to teachers and books. 
Preserve what we can of their traits and their looks, 
And toast to the future and days that are gone, 
Good Night, Old Fort Dearborn — Chicago, Good Morn. 



112 



REUNION OF THE ALUMNI AND GRAD- 
UATING CLASS OF THE OAK PARK 
HIGH SCHOOL JUNE 18, 1890. 

How this recalls those days at school 

When I was "Ed/' and wife was "]u\e," 

Ere Time's white hlossoms drifting down 

Had mingled with our locks of brown ; 

When brows were smooth, when cheeks were fair, 

Our hearts untroubled by a care, 

We viewed youth's Promise Land of joys, 

No better wished for girls and boys. 

These closing scenes bring back once more 
The little school house by whose door, 
Were boy and girl in thoughtful mood, 
(I well remember how they stood) 
Last day of school ; her essay's theme. 
But what they said, or what might dream 
While standing there the closing day. 
You need not ask, they will not say. 

Dear olden times ! How nmch we'd give 
Could we those happy days relive. 
And you who on life's journey start, 
Who tear yourself from one fond heart. 
May marvel why this last salute 
So fills with gloom, though lips are mute. 
Why sadness thrills you through and through. 
As hearts with hands shake in adieu. 



It may seem queer to us old chaps, 
Whose locks are gray, or lost perhaps, 
How it could ever come to pass 
In every school, in every class, 
Our eyes in raising from a book, 
To but one seat would always look, 
And almost always looking thus, 
\Ve saw two eyes were turned to us. 

'Tis not for me to reason why. 

We state the fact and pass it by. 

But wonder is it so to-day, 

If eyes now turn the same queer way? 

If Jim still sees in Mary Ann 

More charms and worth than others can? 

If that blest girl still dotes on him, 

And finds no peer to her dear Jim? 

The present is the past again, 
All school girls just the same remain; 
And these fair ones who join us here, 
W^ith cheeks so flushed and eyes so clear. 
Are prototypes of those sweet girls 
With dimpled cheeks and glossy curls. 
We used to vow long years ago 
Broke Nature's mould to make them so. 

While we with glasses on our nose. 
Who thus upon the young impose. 
Are types of those old fogy men. 



We hoped we'd never see again, 

Who used to make a long address, 

To show how knowledge would us bless. 

''When will they end" would scholars groan, 

Who watched the clock with inward moan. 

I take the hint. I close my lay. 

The school is out. 'Tis time to play. 



REUNION OF DEARBORN SCHOOL. 

Read at the Sherman House, Tuesday, P. M., 

April 14, 1896, After a Fifty Years' 

Vacation. 

The Dearborn School is called again. 
How are you, boys. Good-bye, old men; 
But ere you go salute the lass 
Who so outranked you in each class. 
I would suggest though, in this crowd, 
You breathe not former whispers loud, 
For these dear girls, not seen for years. 
Might blush if heard by husbands' ears. 

'Tis said a truant grain of wheat 

The archaeologist may meet 

Wrapped up, God knows how long a while, 

With former lord of far off Nile, 

But waits the tears of present sky 

To touch the heart of kernel dry; 



Then with the smile our sun bestows, 
The wheat long buried, grandly grows. 

Thus oft do our old hearts contain 
A kernel dry of Cupid's grain, 
Which needs but tears of memory 
To fructify ; and we shall see. 
By brightened eye, and throbliing heart, 
The buried seed has burst apart, 
And warming 'neath a loving smile 
Repeats the story of the Nile. 

I cannot say that any here 

Are waiting for a smile and tear 

To bring to life some buried seed, 

So long entombed that they indeed 

Have quite lost sight, in fact, disown 

Such seeds had in their hearts been sown, 

We will not push the inquiry ; 

But watch these boys, and you will see. 

I know not how it was with you, 

But seeds Love scattered my way grew. 

I cannot quite my girls recall, 

For I believe I loved them all ; 

So if one here should try to show 

That I was her especial beau. 

And I in her took great delight, 

I guess I'd have to own she's right. 



116 



:\nd should you hoys meet here lo-day, 
The sowers of that far off May ; 
Who in \()ur l)reasts let drop the grain 
Which all these years has dormant lain, 
I know their husbands will forgive 
If they see signs that those seeds live, 
h^or men who win such hearts as these 
Have hearts themselves that never freeze, 

But will rejoice that your old flames 
Make known themselves by present names, 
Most gladly learn of days and scenes, 
When we were scarcely in our teens, 
With us will coals of friendship blow, 
And as they gleam with ruddy glow.. 
Will sigh for joys they early missed. 
When you their wives so often kissed. 

Ah, Boys ! were we to live again 
Those happy days, w-e'd do as then. 
Did nature still keep hid away 
For our delight, that special clay 
From which to mould in rare design 
The girls that then w^ere yours and mine, 
God bless them all. and guide with care 
Their steps, henceforth and everywhere. 

And bless all left of that young band, 
Who once more meet to clasp the hand 
Of boys and girls, now men and dames. 

117 



Almost forgotten looks, and names, 
Relive those joyous yesterdays. 
When each dear girl received the praise 
Of errant knight in bashful lad, 
Whose lady's smile made heart so glad. 

And bless these teachers, kindly spared 

To see the soil that they prepared 

With so much care, yet with grave doubts. 

Has grown at length some sturdy sprouts. 

That show scare signs of pruning knife. 

Which they received in early life: 

In gratitude each hand extends 

To former masters — present friends. 



TO MY OLD FRIEND, ALEXANDER BEAU- 
BIEN, ON HIS 80TH BIRTHDAY. 

'Tis more than three score years and six 

Of sunshine, rain and snow 

Since we first met, old friend of mine, 

In days of Long Ago: 

And of the friends we walked with then 

But very few remain; 

The shaded walls of memory 

Alone the loved retain. 

Yet while of most we one by one 
Have been for years bereft, 

118 



Our hearts still cling with tendrils strong 

To those who still are left. 

I then was but a todcllekin, 

While you, a sturdy boy 

With rod and gun by stream and grove 

Would happy hours employ. 

But I soon grew to sport like you 

By prairie, grove and stream, 

The thoughts of which in these changed times 

Seem almost like a dream. 

The prairies now are spread with homes, 

The woods have disappeared, 

As have the fish which then we caught , 

And in the night you speared. 

To think this place when you were born 
Contained one house, alone. 
Where lived a white man's family. 
But one. besides your own, 
That all your mates were Indians, 
Amidst their young you grew. 
Appears a myth, a fairy tale, 
A fancy sketch, untrue. 

But for these changes time has wrought 

We'll not. my friend, complain 

If those still left to cheer us on 

May till the end remain. 

May greet us when we here are met 

• 119 



With story and with song, 
\Miich seem to bear an echo back 
From childhood's happy throng. 

January 22, 1902. 



CHILDHOOD AT FORT DEARBORN. 

Read at the Annual Banquet of the Pioneer Club of Chicago 
At the Grand Pacific Hotel, May 25, 1892. 

Bring out the sponge, wash off the slate, erase the pictures 

new. 
Replace them all with early scenes, the Auld Lang Syne 

review. 
Restore our river as it was, a clear though sluggish stream. 
Where we caught bullheads, perch and bass, before they 

heard of steam, 
Where we along its branches played, and from the green 

turfed brink 
Beheld our faces mirrored there as we stooped down to 

drink. 
Repeat the sign — two fingers up — by lads well understood. 
Who rushed from school and doffed their clothes, unseen 

plunged in the flood. 
Recall how winter changes brought delight unto us boys, 
We'd skate and sleigh ride day and night, pay toll for same 

in noise. 
Wipe out these stately business blocks, replant with sylvan 
shade 

120 



Southwest from Wells and Madison (before the streets were 
made). 

Give Wilder's and McGlashen's woods, Hardscrabble's tan- 
gled maze, 

Along the South Branch would we stroll and on their glories 
gaze. 

Bring back the game we used to shoot, the prairie, grove 
and stream, 

The El Dorado of our youth : the past so like a dream, 

When room for early pastime was, grand sport with rod 
and gun, 

Where miles and miles of playground stretched, on which 
to ride or run. 

Those happy days. Alas ! farewell. I pity children so, 
Now cramped in prison palaces, no place to play and grow; 
No place for kite and "peal away," no place for hoop and 

ball. 
No place for early marble games, on knees in dirt to crawl. 
No place for good "old shinny" now, no place for "two old 

cat" ; 
For "ducks and drakes" no places now, no room for "drop 

the hat," 
And then, the most of all for boys, I think T hear you say, 
"No girls so sweet to play with now. as used with us to 

play," 
But don't you tell your wives of them, lest ihey might jealous 

be, 
I'll not tell yours of you boys, if you'll not mine of me. 



121 



But don't you know the little scrapes they sometimes got us 

in? 
A little mischief, only, boys, but never into sin. 

And apples was the cause again (and do you not believe 
'Twas mean in Adam to eat the fruit and lay the blame to 

Eve?) 
Ah ! dimly down the vista far, where now the stately piles 
Of stores and banks and offices stretch out for many miles, 
I see the verdant prairie, broad, the glow the sunbeams make 
Upon its waving emerald, like moonbeams on the lake. 
I see the smooth, black prairie road, where we would bare- 
foot run. 
Wind in and out among the grass, like serpents in the sun; 
I see a "schooner" far away, by Adams street at least, 
As caravans on deserts move, with treasures from the east, 
I see, it seems, a dozen yokes, slow lumbering up the road, 
I hear the crack of surly whip, the steam that moves the 

load, 
Or now perchance, some lordly swain, a near hind horse 

bestrides. 
With single rein to leaders' heads the numerous spans he 

guides. 
The bells above their collars shake, and peal a pleasant 

chime, 
They softly tread the prairie soil, their bare hoofs keeping 

time. 
I see where Bennett's school pours out at recess or at night, 
I see the boys line up the road, with expectation bright. 



122 



The Wabash captain anchor casts, the "schooner" bringing; 

to, 
With fruit that tempted mother Eve, the Hoosier now tempts 

you. 
I see the rosy apples hang, how luscious they appear; 

I see a crowd of girls and boys come trooping at the rear : 
Good boys died young in those old times — the goody good I 

mean — 
They were not apple proof at least, if seemed the Hoosier 

"green," 
And while no lad among them all could be induced to steal, 
I see a sly young rascal now, climb up the off hind wheel, 
And while the dusty owner seems absorbed with many 

cares, 
"Temptation" has that boy forgot, oft mumbled in his 

prayers. 
An apron is beneath him held all ready to receive, 
The hand below the canvas pressed as ready is to give ; 
Alas, a snake is present here, low coiled up in the path — 
The oxen often feel its sting when driver's heart is wrath — 
A skillful hand is on it laid, obedient to that call, 
A crack is heard above his head, a boy is seen to fall. 

But "Prairie schooners" all have left, they sail our streets 

no more, 
They came with centers downward swayed, bowed up both 

aft and fore. 
Their sunburnt owners, lank and tall no more we see to-day. 
The snap of their loud sounding whips forever's passed away. 

123 



Alul on ihc lake shore where at night their fliekering fires 

glowed, 
And care upon their homely fare was earnestly bestowed, 
Xyhere we the frying bacon heard, the coarse corn dodgers 

saw. 
Where we the boiling cotiee smelt, and heard the horses 

paw, 
That spot by them deserted is, yet those familiar scenes 
By Pioneers will cherished be though then scarce in their 

teens. 

I^escendants of those sterling men who life's great battle 

won, 
Who followed in the early days the setting of the sun, 
Fort Dearborn for her girls and boys this festal board 

prepares — 
For her girls wdio won her praises, for her boys who claimed 

her prayers. 



CHICAGO'S OLD TOWN CRIERS 

"Black George" White, and "Old Pete'' McHenry. 
Read at the Pioneer Banquet, May 26, 1894. 
Don't you hear through the years a familiar old bell, 
See a "Thunder Cloud" vocal, slow shamble the street ; 
When the corner is reached, can't you catch the clear yell 
Of those famous Town Criers Black George or Old Pete? 

" O ! yes. O ! yes, chile loss, chile loss or stole, 
Li'll girl, red dress, straw hat fo' yeas ole. 

124 



Wit pink ginguni a[)Oii, shoes out at toes, 

Der las time was seed dat anybody knows 

War dis afernoon gittin' smart late, 

Out on perari neah Madison an State, 

O ! yes, O ! yes, chile loss, chile loss or sirayea, 

Any pusson findin' will thankful be paid." 

Oe'r weary of chasing the butterflies gay 
Sound asleep on the prairie the little tot lay ; 
Where the rosinweed bending its sunflowered glow 
There the baby unconscious was sleeping below. 

The Town is aroused by the crier's alarms, 
The child is restored to its wild mother's arms. 

O ! yes, O ! yes, chile loss, li'll boy 'n blue. 
Eyes sky blue, bright blue check apon alnios' new, 
Blue short trouses five year ole, patch across, 
O ! yes, O ! yes, chile loss, li'll chile loss." 

The boy by the river bank making mud pies. 
Hied off to his home ere his father should see : 
His mother looked down with tears filling her eyes 
As her husband that patchwork took over his knee. 

Farew^ell to Black George and farew^ell to Old Pete: 
Farewell to the flowers that blossomed so sweet ; 
That dear, little girl fast asleep on the sod, 
Though missed by her mother, was cared for by God. 
Farewell to the boy with his innocent play, 

12.5 



Far happier then than he can be to-day : 
Farewell did I say? let me stifle the word, 
On occasions like this it should never be heard. 
No, not a farewell; call a halt to old Time, 
Wed days of our youth to the years of our prime. 
Bring back the town criers, we still go astray. 
The friends of our childhood are slipping away. 
Are slipping away in the great throbbing mart, 
Are gone to our gaze although housed in our heart. 

Come back again mates, faded long from our sight; 

You girl who slept under the flowers that night; 

And dreamed that the fairies were curling your hair, 

While angels on duty bent o'er you in prayer: 

You boy with checked apron, come mingle again 

With mates of your childhood, these bearded, old men. 

Recall you each other; a pleasure awaits 

Those finding here gathered some early-day mates. 

Who think of them often, and loved them so then, 

Greet friends of your youth in these matrons and men. 

Ah, we cannot distinguish the friends of that day, 

The girls have grown graces, the boys have grown gray: 

But a Pioneer's heart is forever the same, 

Though dimmed be his eyes, and though bent be his frame. 

His spirits are youthful, they never seem old, 

Though the pulses beat slow, not a heart has grown cold. 

"Grown cold?" I guess not, just observe the boys smile 

When joking with girls they've not seen a long while 

Till modern town criers their old friends restore, 

As George White and Black Pete in the good days of yore, 

126 



THE STREAM OF OUR CHILDHOOD. 

Read at the Eleventh Reunion of the Pioneers of Chicago at 
the Sherman House, Saturday Evening, May 26, 1900. 

Let us romp to the river that some of us knew, 

When the heavens were dyed in an indigo blue. 

Where we strolled in our pride o'er the flower-decked sod, 

With a fine string of perch hanging down from our rod, 

When the fleecy clouds gathered like lambs in the fold, 

And the rainbows sprang arches from caldrons of gold. 

When the dandefied blackbirds, red epaulets wore, 

As they swung on the rushes that bordered the shore 

When like sentries the elms by it gracefully stood. 

When the hawthorn and hazel ran wild in the wood 

As we children, turned loose from our home-tasks and 

schools, 
With the freedom of robins, untrammeled by rules. 

There, expanding our forms, and delighting our souls. 

Eating corn and potatoes we cooked in the coals; 

They were raw, and were burnt when before us they came 

With their ashes encasement, but good, all the same, 

Never once was it asked, "Did our mothers cook so?" 

As we munched what we saved from the embers red glow. 

Ah ! those are the days we delight to recall 
When the stream was so pure, when Chicago was small. 
With McGlashen's our Mecca, through Wilder's we'd pour 
With the Hardscrabble woods on the opposite shore; 

127 



What perfection of bliss did that river contain; 
Have you ever seen anything Hke it since then? 

How in Summer we swam, or went fishing, at will, 
Or in Winter, with skating, enjoying it still. 
It was beauty incarnate, for so does it seem, 
As we think of it yet, in a ruminant dream. 
That old alchemist, Sol, of the waves, silver made, 
As the zephyr-kissed waters their dimples displayed. 

Did we ever think- then, what we all know to-day 
That the charms of the river could e'er pass away? 
They would fade like the flowers, we then so admired, 
Dropping down midst their fragrance, when heated and 

tired. 
Could we think that the pile-drivers, docks and the dredge 
Would destroy both the perch and their homes in the sedge? 

That the monsters of commerce would come with their 

steam, 
That canal boats would crowd it, and tugs shrieking scream 
With their soot and their smoke, which we cannot abate 
But receive in our faces, when "bridged" we must w^ait? 
Did we think that the City, undeigning to ask. 
Would enforce on the stream its unsavory task, 
Ever making it do what seemed best for the town. 
Be it standing quite still, running up hill, or down? 

Let us romp to the river that some of us knew, 
Drawing back the old veil, that again we may view 

128 




J£» 



When the banks of the stream where we strolled with our rod, 
Were embroidered with blossoms that scented the sod. 



The silver-tipped stream with the turf to the brink, 
Boyish faces reflecting who stooped there to drink. 
Let us rest on the bank as we did years ago, 
Let us watch the bark shallops we in it may throw 
Till they sweep from our sight to be lost on the sea, 
Let us wonder as then where their haven may be. 

Of the boys who then sent them, slow drifting away, 
Very few near the banks have continued to stay, 
But have drifted like sticks by their idle hands cast, 
While we wondered what haven they moored in at last. 
As the barks that then Eastward, now Southward will 

sweep. 
But arriving at last on the same boundless deep. 
So the friends that went drifting long since from our sight, 
We will find that life's tides will all some day unite. 

We are drifting, old mates, drifting out to the main, 
But we cannot, we should not, we will not complain, 
Though the storms of life's voyage may drift us apart 
Who upon the loved river together did start, 
Let us pray our return, and the Father grant this. 
Near the stream of our childhood, His haven of bliss. 



129 



RECEPTION OF REV. R. F. JOHONNOT, D. D. 

at Unity Church, Oak Park, Friday Evening, Sept. 4th. 

1896, Upon His Return from His 

Summer Vacation. 

We had a charming respite when our pastor was away, 
Such perfect rest and comfort that we ahuost wished he'd 

stay. 
No terrors then had Sundays as we donned our week-day 

clothes, 
And dropped in hammocks wearily in quiet to repose. 
With singing birds above our heads, or hopping on the lawn, 
We felt a secret happiness to think our pastor gone. 

With such calm days between the weeks, how quickly time 

flew then, 
Vacations that give boys delight, came back to us old men. 
Our dreaming eyes beheld fair scenes shut out from common 

view, 
The Saturdays of long ago, with playmates loved and true. 
The sports and spots we then enjoyed came trooping back 

once more 
As setting sun on placid lake portrays the trees on shore. 

We tossed and tumbled on the grass beneath the sylvan 

shade, 
We watched the clouds patrol the blue — the shadows that 

they made 
And dreamingly we went with them — took in the wondrous 

sights, 

130 



Which we, as guests, would gaze upon, in all their circling 

flights. 
We read or rested as we pleased, to church bells deaf as Lot, 
And thanked the stars our church was closed, and pitied 

whose v/ere not. 

And yet if we must welcome you, we may as well begin, 
And hope you will not blame us much, nor charge it to our 

sin 
That we have so enjoyed ourselves, while you have been 

away; 
For when the cat has turned her back the young are sure 

to play. 
But as we can't play all the time, must dress and go to 

church, 
We're glad to have a preacher come who leaves behind his 

birch. . 

We hope you filled your lamp with oil by which it can be 

shown 
The mote that's in our neighbor's eye, not beam that's in 

our own. 
Or if you're likely to reveal the beams our eyes may keep, 
Just let us guilty close our eyes and hide the beam in sleep. 
Your salary will go along, the sleepers be content 
And you can preach the better when you see us nod assent. 

These silver fellows take in hand, and while you may not 
preach 



131 



On politics, and kindred themes, we wish you them would 

teach. 
But if you find they do not mind, but silver sling around. 
Just save it for the Organ Fund, don't leave it on the 

ground. 
And see the birthday sums increase, from old men take no 

plea, 
(This sauce is for the other goose, please keep away from 

me). 

But you are welcome after all, whatever we may say, 
It makes no difference to you, you'd come back anyway. 
That residence on Kenilworth, the organ, roof and wall 
And other things inviting you we cannot mention all 
But one thing we are bound to say if it should cost our life, 
We welcome you with open hands, with hearts we greet your 
wife. 



TIME'S HEADLANDS. 

Lines Read at the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of Unitv 
Church, Oak Park, March 6, 1896. 

On Time's headland we stand, who are spared of that band 

That a fourth of a century since 

Here united to praise the dear Father whose ways 

Doth unchangeable goodness evince. 

While the few who are left have been sadly bereft, 

We have never once questioned His love, 



132 



Who foreseeing the best, made our friends truly blest 
By inviting them sooner above. 

And as now there appears, through our smiles and our 

tears, 
The dim years of the past in review, 

The sweet faces long missed, and the lips that we kissed, 
The dear friends who had ever proved true. 
We shall feel no surprise, but be proud that our eyes 
Drop in toll the true coins of our heart, 
Which we would not suppress^ that the Father to bless, 
Deemed it best that life's loved ones should part. 

We instinctively know, that come weal or come woe, • 

Though too blind to interpret His plan. 

Were His ways understood, we'd find nothing but good. 

As His ultimate purpose in man. 

Then expel every thought, which we here may have brought 

With a shadow, to darken this board, 

With a smile for each friend should our hand we extend, 

And give thanks for these gifts of our Lord. 

Let us bask while we may in the sun of to-day, 

Let us banish our doubts and our fears. 

And interpret as good, what is not understood, 

Making most of the good that appears. 

Let each heart-entombed pain ever buried remain, 

But the joys we have tasted before, 

Like the flower seeds, sow, that they always may blow. 

And the past summers' glories restore. 

133 



On occasions like these, when we catch the cool breeze 

Drifting down from the mountains of snow, 

When Time's headlands appear, and we see standing here 

Their far peaks in the sun's setting glow. 

We may dread the chill air that comes whirling from there, 

May prefer the soft balm of the vale^ 

But we cannot stand still, it is God's holy will. 

That we each have those mountains to scak. 

But our hearts even then will return to the glen, 

And our eyes will attempt to discern 

In the depths of the shade every spot where we played, 

And to which we would gladly return. 

Let us joys of the past — then retain to the last. 

Bearing with us wherever we go 

Every flower we love, every friendship we prove 

That may brighten Time's Headlands of snow. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

Read at the Memorial Service of A. G. Throop at the 
Universalist Church, Pasadena, Cal., March 24, 1895. 
Mr. Throop was formerly one of the most prominent 
and highly esteemed citizens of Chicago. 

All unannounced a plain stanch ship. 

Without the least display. 
Sails o'er the seas and casts at last 

Her anchor in the bay. 
No guns proclaim her still approach; 



No banners deck her spars, 
One only flag above her floats, 

Its bhie begemmed with stars. 
She sails in safety through the storms 

That rage on tropic strands, 
Rich freighted with the choicest growth 

Of semi-tropic lands. 
No gems nor jewels does she bring, 

But wondrous seeds to sow. 
With plants, and flowers, rarest trees, 

In our rich soil to grow. 
She leaves her cargo stored with us, 

And sails away once more, 
Well freighted with our choicest gifts. 

For some far distant shore. 

Farewell brave ship. Your cargo changed, 

We could not bid you stay. 
And as we saw, with canvas spread 

You sweep beyond the bay. 
We knew that you would not return ; 

But graced by wind and tide. 
Would reach in time some charming isle. 

And anchor by its side. 

We then to those rare treasures turned. 
And as should stewards true, 

In our good soil we planted them 
In memory of you. 

And now behold in vale, on hill, 



13.-) 



And l.n ii|) iiioiiiil.im i .mi;i\ 
Wo i;i*»ii|) m (Mil own llor.i's Iionu* 

riir w oi Id's I'xolus str.int;r, 
W lioir d.iN lt\ (lay. .md nuuilli l»\ luoiilh. 

As roiinilrss \(\irs ndl \y\ , 
ri\o |>i idr dl" almost o\rrv land. 

W ill bloom beneath our sky. 



And so mv Irirnds, tboio eame to yon 

rnlu-ialded b\ lame, 
A plain, a stiiuii;. an lionrst man. 

Who K It a idu-nslu'd name. 
No ,Ui">'^ annoniurd his still a]>proach. 

\o trumpet did \\c sound. 
r>nt robed in sweet humility, 

1 le with the potM" was I'ound. 
A hai; 'tis true, he bore aloft. 

Nor I'eared to w a\ r abovi^ ; 
Its legends were "Man's brotherhood." 

And "Clod's uutlyin^ love." 
lie eauu> in sat'etv tlu(MiL;h the storms 

That sweep so many down ; 
The ercvss he bore unllinehin^ly. 

I le meekly wore (he erowu. 
1 le ilid not murmur that his ( hhI. 

riu^ (iinl he loved so well. 
ShouKl take from him his gallant sou. 

W h.^ lor his eountrv fell : 
And vet how hea\ v was the eross, 

When sank the loved to rest. 

I'M 



111. fricndh can better testify, 

Who knew his heart the best. 

J }iat chaste memorial winrlow, friends, 
Where drifts the sunlight throujjh, 

I'roclaJm hi» j(reat fidelity; 
'\(} every trust most true, 

Kich irc'i'^hitd both in head and heart, 

\i': j^avc to rnan his store, 
And with the gift he gave himself — 

A sacrifice much more. 
Full well he sowed the seeds he brought; 

We see on every hand 
The prr/mise of granrl harvest times 

AbounrI throughout the land. 
Anrl from that cargo left with us, 

Me bid, us likewise sow 
The seeds of truth and righteousness: 

♦'iood-will to man below. 
Hilt wc come not to eulogize: 

W.C leave his works to praise. 
So true and noble in his aim. 

So simple in his ways. 
That we would his fine feelings wrong, 

J lis modesty offend, 
Did we permit our lips to breathe 

A tribute to our friend. 

Farewell, brave man. Your cargo changed, 
We could not bid you stay. 



And as we saw, with folded arms, 
You sweep beyond the bay 

We knew that you would not return, 
But graced by wind and tide. 

Would reach in time some charming isle, 
And anchor by its side. 



TO MRS. AND MR. C. E. R.,? UPON 
THEIR TIN WEDDING. 

When Love — blind elf — his dart doth poise. 

And send it forth unheeding, 
If it strike either girls or boys, 

Or older hearts sets bleeding, 
We often wonder how his aim 

So wild and blindly taken, 
Can pierce two hearts, and 'stead of maim, 

May bliss in both awaken. 

And while thus shooting in the dark. 

We surely should not wonder 
If he might sometimes miss the mark. 

And join those, best asunder. 
So thankful are we for his hits, 

Made happy in the matching, 
We will not scold him for misfits; 

That need such careful patching. 

And when we see, as we do here, 
Two lives so sweetly blended, 

138 



Where love grows stronger every year 
As through the ten just ended 

We thank the boy who took the aim, 
The fates who kindly guided : 

It marks a score against the blame 
For shots that are one-sided. 

When Love does such a home create, 

And crowds it with his treasures 
He gives to man his best estate 

And crowns his earthly pleasures. 
Here toils divide, joys multiply, 

The path which one is wending 
The other seeks to beautify 

By home's swxet flowers tending. 

Oh ! wedded love, that builds these shrines 

And gives to God their keeping: 
Around thy columns cluster vines 

We tend with smiles and weeping. 
If blossoms fade we cannot save, 

And drop when least expected, 
Through Hope we see beyond the wave 

The cradle moored, protected. 

Here age and childhood, side by side. 
Grow young and old together: 

These skies so bright at eventide 
Give promise of fair weather. 

Oh ! may the sunshine ever play 

139 



upon this hearthstone brightly, 
Love light the home with smiles by day, 
The windows lighting nightly. 

February 3rd, 1886. 



TO JOHN BLAIR, THE LANDSCAPE 
GARDENER. 

Long years have drifted by us both 
Since last we met^ old friend — John Blair, 
And winters' snows have fadeless wreaths 
Soft pressed upon your thinning hair. 
Your eyes of blue have dimmer grown, 
Your powers feebler are than then, 
Your step has lost its sturdy tread — 
Your well-knit frame bends more than when 
We parted years ago; but all 
Old friends, yet kindly spared to me. 
See life's dull sinking sun hang low 
Above the Western isles and sea. 
And so, I come to greet thee, friend. 
To grasp thy honest hand once more — 
To talk of Auld Lang Syne again, 
Of friends we loved in days of yore. 
But sadly missing you, I learn 
That you — and I — have greatly changed: 
Yet change as may our outward mien. 
Our hearts can never be estranged. 
And here, beneath gigantic trees — 

140 



Which you so wisely chose to spare — 

I stop to write these Hnes to you, 

My long time-honored friend, John Blair. 

Full many weary leagues you came 
From Scotia's rugged Highlands bare 
Before we met, 'neath kinder skies, 
Where men like you are prized, John Blair. 
And having set in prairie soil 
Beside ihose wondrous inland seas 
The tiny shrubs which since those days 
Have grandly grown to stately trees ; 
With ferns and flowers and bordered lakes, 
Which, rippling, welled at thy command; - 
With rustic bridges spanning streams 
That gemmed thy vales in fairy land, 
With rare surprises filling lawns — 
Surpassing far Art's storied pile 
In bidding Nature's rugged face 
To greet mankind with flow'ring smile. 
With heart at war with selfishness. 
But wedded well to ends in view, 
Thy honest purpose, genius led, 
Has left grand works in praise of you. 
Each scattered seed, each simple shrub. 
Arranged and grouped by talent rare, 
Shall through the ages tribute pay 
Unsought, but still to thee — John Blair. 



141 



I know not where your feet may stray, 

Nor how much longer in God's care 

You dwell beside this western sea; 

But this I know and feel, John Blair, 

That when the Father calls thee home 

For thee a crown will long remain 

In Nature's deathless cabinet 

Which wealth might covet but in vain. 

If modest worth may ever boast, 

Thy boast will be that hearts will thrill 

Thro' all the tempting years to come 

In contemplation of thy skill. 

And though the world may never read 

Thy elegy on chiselled stone 

(That love may kindly place above 

Thy resting place), and all unknown 

Thy form may mingle in the dust 

Of this, tho' favored, far-off land. 

Few men have lived a better life. 

Nor one whose deeds more truly grand 

Have been to benefit mankind, 

Than crowns the honored name you bear- 

And few whose works so long shall live 

As thine, my honest friend, John Blair. 

Victoria, B. C, September 27, 1896. 



142 



THE POET OF THE PEOPLE. 

Prof. James Gowdy Clark. 
The Master is come, and calleth for thee." — John xi :28. 

The birds that through the summer time 

In northern woodlands sing, 

There weaving sunshine into song, 

A trust and gladness bring 

To many homes, where shadows fall, 

Where Hope with tear dimmed eye 

Has vainly searched through wintry clouds, 

For blue and tranquil sky. 

These birds seem sweet interpreters 

Of things by us unseen: 

They bear us messages from climes 

Where we have never been. 

They look above the sterile moor, 

And sailing waves of air 

Beyond our dim horizon's brim. 

They sing of regions fair. 

And when the bright autumnal leaves 
Come rustling down to earth, 
Admonished by their nests laid bare, 
They leave their place of birth, 
In flocks convene and southward fly 
As mates inviting call, 
In safety guided by His care. 
Who marks each sparrow's fall. 

143 



And while we may a sadness feel 

In missing songs they sing, 

Yet cheered are we to know we'll hear 

Those songs again in Spring. 

And through the gloom of winter time, 

This thought will comfort give, 

While they for others sing to-day. 

With us their songs still live. 

Thus with our friend: his songs remain. 

With tender touch, yet brave, 

He reared "The Mount of Holy Cross,"* 

Above each vanquished grave. 

With prayerful spirit asked, "Art Thou 

Yet Living, Mother Dear?"* 

He's reached his 'Tsles of By and By,"* 

Her answer he doth hear. 

We'll miss the songs he loved to sing 
As evening shades draw on : 
Though other friends may sing them still, 
We'll miss the voice that's gone. 
And yet in us 'twere selfishness 
To wish our friend might stay. 
Whom God in His unbounded love. 
Has wisely led away. 

But do not think our brother dead, 

Because his lips are mute. 

He's joined the loved, who waited long 

144 



For his delayed salute. 

Go ask your hearts, that treasure up 

The grand things he has said, 

If he who lives in noble works 

Can be considered dead ? 

Think you the grave containeth him 

Who heard the call of God? 

He is not there, though flowered wreath 

And cross bedeck the sod. 

For like the birds that southward flew, 

He sings beyond our ken. 

But when life's winter days are through, 

We'll hear his songs again. 



*Some of his favorite poems. 



TO MRS. J. K. R., UPON HER 70TH 
BIRTHDAY. 

I bring to you a red, red rose, 

How many more have you, who knows? 

If for each year a blossom shows 

And we should count, you might oppose. 

But this we know, that each heart flows 

With gratitude that He bestows 

These lengthened years of calm repose 

Where happy thoughts do not propose 

That gloomy ones shall them depose. 

But sweet content, which ills compose, 

145 



That sees beyond life's wintry snows 
The bud of love that ever grows 
When from our childhood days one sows, 
For that makes friends of would-be foes, 
Wins wayward ones, destroyed by blows ; 
And whispers as each loved one goes, 
"You'll have the more when life shall close 
To welcome you from earthly woes." 

Oak Park, July 27, 1905. 

TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A 
JULIA. 

And so you're married. Doctor, 
And married Julia, too, 
I thought that I had married her 
But now it seems 'tis you, 
Yet I recall 'twas I in love 
With that endearing name 
And if there is no other "Jule" 
Why she must be the same. 

Now let me see; I fell in love, — 

It seems a little while. 

But when I see my gray haired sons 

I shake my head and smile. 

Near fifty years ''J^^^'s" heen my wife, 

That does seem years ago, — 

And when my likeness I behold 

I own it must be so. 

146 



Just ask your "]u\g" if she's been loved 

Some fifty years or more, 

Her fellow all those married years 

Has loved her as before? 

It may be there's another girl, 

I thought there was but one, 

Nor changed my mind from that day on — 

How swiftly Time doth run. 

But I suspect it cannot be 

That she was once my bride, 

K not, just let me wish that she 

Be like her by my side. 

But you, my friend, must do your part 

To make your home ideal. 

The love which romance sometimes claims 

Surpass by making real. 

January 13, 1905. 



MY REGRETS. 

I sincerely regret being absent to-night. 

For but few things in life yield me greater delight, 

Than to witness enforced one of Cupid's commands — 

"Bless the union of hearts by the joining of hands." 

And may this happy union a true one remain, 

That hands now uniting, unclasping again 

But in feeble old age. when you both may be blest 

In the journey together to life's pleasant rest. 

147 



It is near fifty years since I blushed by the side 
Of a pluperfect girl^ who is still my dear bride, 
And I wonder, my friend, would it be in me wise. 
When a chap is just married, to presume to advise? 
To let love hold the reins in your journey of life, 
And the girl you adored love still more as your wife. 
Bear in mind that slight causes oft bring intense pain; 
Hence the courteous gentleman always remain. 
Your deportment, and word that you hereafter speak, 
Find the model of both in your ways of last week. 

Be your presence a sunshine, thus leaving when gone 
Happy thoughts of return after absence forlorn. 
Wed your duty to pleasure, — the children they bear 
Make delight of our labor, and footballs of care. 
With these precepts, so simple, no love can grow cold. 
And the hearts that retain them are never so old 
But there meets on home's threshold, as doors open wide. 
The sweet smile of the groom and the kiss of the bride. 



TO WILLIAM F. BLOCKI 

Upon Receiving From Him a Beautiful Rose on My 
69th Birthday. 

Again, old friend, a rose you place 
Upon my desk, reminding me 
That through the years of life's long race, 
Each birthday brings like gift from thee. 
The perfume that from this doth melt 
As presence of the soul's sweet mist — 

148 



Too subtle to be seen or felt, 
Yet well we know that both exist. 

I cannot mould my thoughts to say 
What I would gratefully express, 
But mine with yours I blend to-day. 
And as you me, I you would bless. 
It seems an age since first we met 
In life's bright morning, and the years 
Have seen fond hopes in our hearts set 
Lie crushed and bleeding in our tears. 

And yet we've bravely tried to see 
Hope's bow of promise melt the cloud, 
To trace in all our destiny 
His guiding hand, to which we've bowed. 
Oft walked by faith, much more than sight, 
As our short vision failed to see 
Through grief's deep gloom of starless night 
The glories of eternity. 

But we old friend should not complain. 
Our blessings far exceed our woes. 
We count each loss, heed not the gain. 
Note transient aches, not long repose. 
While thus we journey towards the end, 
Which sometimes seems so very near, 
We greater prize each old time friend. 
Who still is left, our hearts to cheer. 
May 7, 1901. 

149 



TO MY OLD FRIEND AND NEIGHBOR 
HON. W. H. WOOD 

Upon Receipt of a Letter from Him. 

I read in the lines which you sent me, my friend, 

Your heart was directing your pen; 

I saw in the clouds which life's Winter may send 

The sun of life's Spring-time again. 

Thank heaven, the years cannot wholly destroy 

What once gave us exquisite ease; 

The dawns of those days let us wisely employ, 

To brighten the evenings of these. 

We cannot stand still in the current, my friend; 

The towns will in spite of us grow, 

The greetings to friends we were wont to extend 

We now must to strangers bestow. 

As slowly we journey, we sigh for the times 

And friends of our earlier days, 

And somehow we think that our memories' chimes 

Are sweetest when pealing their praise. 

It is well we can turn in a retrospect vein 

And find such delight in the past; 

Our minds at our will may go strolling again 

In paths where life's roses were cast. 

Time never can steal what we once have enjoyed. 

What fondly our hearts still adore; 

And moments yet left us are sweetly employed 

Reliving the pleasures of yore. 

Pasadena, March 17th, 1900. 

150 



TO MRS. AND MR. VJ. H. WOOD 
OF OAK PARK 

Upon Receiving an Invitation to Their Golden Wedding 
Thursday Evening, Dec. 28, 1897. 

Midst birds and bloom 'neath skies of blue 
Across this wond'rous continent 
There came to us the note that you 
Had fifty years together spent. 
And asking that v^e also meet 
Those comrades of our smiles and tears, 
Who at your hearthstone are to greet 
The bride and groom of fifty years. 

Though space defies our feeble voice 
To bear to you what we would say, 
Yet in our hearts do we rejoice 
That you have lived to see this day. 
So seldom granted to our kind, 
For few these journeys have we known 
But one dear heart was left behind, 
The broken toiling on alone. 

We greet you, then. Across the states 
Our hand would reach in warm embrace; 
None warmer — sure — congratulates, 
Though gladly meeting face to face. 
We greet such lives that grandly prove 
What we have always thought so true, 
.That naught with years grows like our love; 
May thus the Father's love crown you. 
Pasadena, Dec. 20, 1897. 

151 



MY REGRETS TO OUR YOUNG QUAKER 
FRIEND, H. STERLING, T. 

Regretting, my boy, that we cannot attend 

The union in wedlock of thee and thy friend. 

Yet present in thoughts will we be to attest 

The qualities Sterling with which thou art blest. 

We know that the heart which thou plightest is warm, 

Thy hand thou bestowest in no idle form. 

That love in the future, as now, will abide 

A joy to the groom, a delight to the bride. 

We gladly remember how happy thee seemed, 
How smile of content on thy youthful face gleamed. 
As eve would the young to our ingle-side bring. 
Where converse and mirth made the "Old Manor" ring. 
What then brought thee bliss we would have thee retain. 
Thy heart keep at home, noble thoughts in thy brain. 
As bees, to thy hive bring thou nothing but sweet, 
A kiss at the parting, naught less when ye meet. 

This advice we believe thee will readily take 

When cheeks wear the bloom that the June roses make. 

When eyes are undimmed by a sorrow or care. 

No dream of December adrift in the hair. 

But age so essential to mellow the wine 

Turns cider to acid ; let fruit of the vine 

Be model to thee, that as years slow advance. 

Grow richer thy lips, as the vintage of France. 

Oct. II, 1894. 

152 



TO J. D. B. OF DENVER, UPON 
HIS SILVER WEDDING 

We reach our hands to yon far state, 
And warmly clasp in fancy thine, 
While mem'ry through her Golden Gate 
Restores both you and Auld Lang Syne. 
'Tis true we'd see you not as when 
Your cheeks by wrinkles were unploughcd, 
Would fail to note their tints as then, 
Your laughing eyes, in heads unbowea. 

But why should we admit surprise 
That five and twenty winters show 
Around thy frames of twinkling eyes 
Dry beds of tears and tracks of crow? 
For in your absence we can see 
You coyly standing side by side. 
The album of our memory 
Keeps portraits true of groom and bride. 

How dear the thought as years roll past. 
That what our hearts may highly prize. 
Love holds within her lockets, fast 
Its images and Time defies. 
The form may wasted be by pain, 
The eye from weeping, dim may grow 
But mem'ry brings to us again 
What it did years ago bestow. 



158 



But, John, I never see a boy 

By blushing maiden harrying. 

Whose time for weeks has found employ 

In practicing his marrying 

But what I in myself recall 

How I did flurry, bride did stew. 

She knew that I "would spoil it all;" 

What great relief when it was through. 

Now, John, "brace up." If you improve 
Upon your former wedding plan, 
Put in the scheme some kind of love 
That better sticks to maid and man, 
Just let us know, and may be we 
Will undertake the job again, 
Tho' I must say, 'twixt you and me 
I think I beat creation then. 
June 7, 1885. 



ON BEING PRESENTED WITH A 
COPY OF \VHITTIER'S LAST 
W^ORK, "AT SUNDOWN" 

I have "At Sundown," sister, dear, 
The book you kindly sent to me, 
By which your name hence joined shall be 
With that of sainted Whittier. 

I thank you and commend your choice. 
You compliment me when you send 




2 ^ 






:^ < 



This closing work of that true Friend 
Whose songs have made the world rejoice. 

"At Sundown." Here the gentle seer 
Breathes lofty words in sweet farewell ; 
In tones prophetic does he dwell, 
Foreseeing his own "Sundown" near. 

How tender is his parting lay. 
Upon "The summer's closing eve," 
*Ts this the last I am to live," 
He asks, "ere I shall pass away?'^ 

Once more the summer's "Sundown" came, 
He felt its fading warmth depart. 
Its waning did not chill his heart, 
His old time trust remained the same. 

As he had seen the sun sink low 
For many years behind the hill, 
His faith had taught him that "it will 
Again arise with kindling glow." 

As one by one he missed the grasp 
Of friends who journeyed on before, 
He knew some "Sundown" would restore 
Those hands he longed again to clasp. 

O ! friend of all. whate'er their name. 
Their class, their color or their clan, 



Who saw in each a brother man, 

We brook no "Sundown" to thy fame. 

No Sundown to those works of thine, 
Nor to the faith you taught mankind, 
Nor blessings you have left behind, 
'Tis sunshine where thy precepts shine. 

No sundown to the lofty thought 
You schooled our taste and impulse to. 
That makes our lives more grand and true 
In living what you sweetly taught. 

And as I read thy lofty lines, 
Where sundown bathes rich orange groves, 
And soft, warm air their branches moves. 
My heart to thee still more inclines. 

Still more inclines to raise my voice 
For right and truth wherever found, 
Remove the chains that chance has bound, 
The fetters, not of human choice. 

Still more inclines to that behest— - 
Whatever troubles may beset. 
Though dark the day — there cometh yet 
A Sundown for each anxious breast. 

Still more inclines to walk his way. 
Inspired by what he sweetly sings, 
Assured like him that Sundown brings 
The Sunrise of a brighter day. 

Azusa, California, Jan. i, 1893. 

156 



TO REV. H. I. C, D. D. 

A stranger almost, yet a friend, 

No words of mine can comfort thee. 
I only can my hand extend 

And press my silent sympathy. 
I knew your wife. Long years have sped 

Since those almost forgotten days, 
And when I heard that she was dead 

I came once more on her to gaze. 

I placed a rose upon her bier, 

A pale, pink rose; and that was all. 
In dropping, it concealed a tear 

Her mother's friend had just let fall. 
I looked a moment on her face. 

For many years to me unknown, 
To see if I in it could trace. 

Her early looks, but all had flown. 

For she was but a little child 

With rosy cheeks, and winsome ways, 
With voice so sweet and manners mild 

She drew, from all, deserved praise 
When then I knew her, years ago. 

And all through life her loved ones claim 
She did not change her ways, although 

A wife and mother she became. 

» 
A stranger in a strange land? No. 

From her first home old neighbors came: 



Her parents' friends of long ago, 

In broken accents breathed her name, 

And scattered flowers dewed with tears 
Lay on her casket, and the floor, 

Each bringing back the silent years, 

And thoughts of those now gone before. 

And how befitting she should come 

To this fair sunset land of ours ; 
Should leave her bleak New England home 

To pass away amidst the flowers ; 
Should come to catch one short glimpse here 

Of grander life, of purer bliss. 
And seeing Heaven brought so near, 

Should step to that fair world from this. 

Pasadena, March 15, 1895. 



158 



Songs 



WRITE ME A SONG 

W'rilicn at the request of ^^Irs. E. O. S., who composed 
the music. 

Write me a song, a sweet, new song, 

To chime with the music of Spring, 

Which shall to my heart 

Xew vigor impart 

As its fresh, joyous verses I sing. 

Write me a song, a cheerful song 

To sing when life's burdens are light. 

When the skies are clear, 

No shadow^ nor tear 

In the offing of Hope bears in sight. 

Write me a song, a tender song, 

To sing when the evening draws nigh, 

When labors are done. 

And the stars one by one 

Drift away to their moorings on high. 

Write me a song, a homelike song, 

That ever to mind shall recall 

Earth's loveliest spot, 

The vale and the cot. 

As they stand in my memory's hall. 

Alay, 1863. 



itji 



DREAM OF OTHER YEARS 

Dream of other years, friend, 
In this cahn midnight hour, 
May Somnus to thee send 
A bough from Morpheus' bower. 
Dream of our childhood days 
When we w^ere free from care; 
Dream of our merry plays, 
Of friends who did them share. 

Dream, dream, dream of other years, 
Dream, dream, dream of other years. 

Dream of other years, friend, 
The blissful past review. 
May memory its aid lend 
And vanished scenes renew. 
Dream of our happy youth, 
Recalling girls and boys. 
Reliving those, in truth, 
Days of perennial joys. 

Dream, dream, dream of other years, 
Dream, dream, dream of other years. 

Dream of other years, friend, 
Sweet as an infant sleep. 
May Joy its hopes extend 
And vigils round thee keep. 
No clouds their shadows cast 



Nor fears thy slumi)ers move, 
That life until the last 
Thy happy dreams may prove. 

Dream, dream, dream of other years, 
Dream, dream, dream of other years. 

May, 1863. 



163 



WHERE ARE THE FRIENDS WHO 
SANG FOR ME? 

Where are the friends who sang for me 
Those songs I loved so much to hear ? 
Whose touching words and melody 
Heard years ago, seem yet so near? 
I sometimes catch a gentle strain 
That holds me spellbound with delight, 
W^hile mem'ry brings them back again 
Whose presence I so miss to-night. 



Where are the friends who sang for me. 
Those friends so cheri-shed, old and young; 
But one sweet voice now tremblingly 
Sings those old airs that then were sung. 
The many ceased long years ago 
To sing those songs of other days. 
Or, if they sing, I do not know 
For whom they sing those tender lays. 

Where are the friends who sang for me 
Those sweetest strains my boyhood heard? 
Whose hearts poured forth as joyfully 
As notes from throat of blithesome bird? 
Those friends who used to sing for me 
And their sweet songs are with me still; 
For yet I keep in memory 
What did my heart in youth so thrill. 

June 23, 1883. 

164 



TO LUNA 

(Tune, '"Tis said that absence conquers love.") 

Mild, modest sister of the sun, 

Thy beauties we admire, 

And those bright stars that one by one 

Add radiance to thy fire. 

Fair, sleepless queen, thy light bestow. 

And with thine aids on high 

(juard thou the sleeping world below 

And rule the glittering sky. 

We're sitting where thy pleasant beams 

Fall softly 'round our feet, 

Wliile thoughts will wander like our dreams 

Our absent friends to greet. 

Perchance they're gazing where they are. 

Along thy shining track, 

xAiud though in person distant far 

IMay send a greeting back. 

And as thy brother oft will trace 

With pencil from his flame 

The image" of some loved one's face, 

Do thou for us the same. 

The mind contains an inner hall 

AMiere Fancy's groups abound, 

Impress our likeness on its wall; 

To-night we'd there be found. 

Oct., 1863. 



THANKSGIVING HYMN 

(Tune, "America.") 

Sung at the Oak Park Union Church, Thursday, Nov. 
26, 1863. Services held in compHance with President Lin- 
cohi's proclamation setting aside the day for thanksgiving 
and prayer. 

We thank Thee, Holy One, 
For all that Thou hast done 
To bless our land ! 
Thank Thee for noble sires 
Who kindled Freedom's fires, 
Whose spirit yet inspires 
Each patriot band. 

We thank Thee for the care 

That led the pilgrims here. 

Did them defend ! 

Thank Thee for shrines they reared 

To Thee both loved and feared, 

Whose name they all revered, — 

Omniscient Friend. 

We thank Thee for this land 

With all its tokens grand 

Of Thy good will ! 

We thank Thee for the past. 

The halo it will cast 

i\s long as nations last 

Around us still. 

166 



But while with thanks we raise 
Our voices to Thy praise 
And hless Thy name, 
Still would our prayers ascend 
To Thee, our heavenly Friend, 
And ask Thee to extend 
Thine arm to save. 

Stay each rebellious hand 
Now raised against our land. 
This conflict cease. 
Bless Thou our holy cause, 
The Union and the laws, 
Until with glad applause 
We conquer peace. 

When peace once more shall reign, 

We pray it may remain 

On land and sea. 

The Union firm and strong. 

Laws freed from every wrong, 

One flag to all belong, 

The people free. 



LULLABY 

Now gently drop to rest. 
Thy head let softly lie 
Against this loving breast, 
And shut thy weary eye. 
Let Somnus dip his bough 
In Lethean dew, full deep, 
And wave above thy brow, 
To close thine eyes in sleep. 

Fly with him to his cave, 
Where Night her slumber keep? 
Where poppies gently wave 
And Care unconscious sleeps. 
There not a sound is heard, 
But all is quiet rest, 
And e'en the little bird 
Drops songless to its nest. 

Morpheus' arms as mine 
Shall lovingly caress 
This tender little vine, 
Engrafted on my breast. 
As my own face be those 
Whom thou in Dreamland meet. 
Come baby, quickly close 
Thy weary eyes in sleep. 

Oct. 24, 1869. 



168 



THE BABYHOOD ISLAND OF DREAMS 

There's a beautiful isle beyond the bay, 

Tliat is peopled by babies and dreams ; 

And the tendercst boatmen, night and day. 

Keep a watch of the babyhood streams. 

And the mothers and babes, sore, tired for rest, 

With a featherless dip of the oar. 

Every bird do they take from the home's warm nest 

And bear off to the shadowy shore. 

All the boatmen as tender as mothers are. 

Every face with a loveliness beams. 

Not a babe, with its mother, goes so far 

As this trip to the Island of Dreams ; 

Not a cradle so soothes to needful sleep 

As the boat in the babyhood streams. 

As it mounts on the waves which softly creep, 

In approaching the Island of Dreams. 

There are beautiful things the babies meet 
As they roam in the bright poppy groves. 
There are butterflies rare and roses sweet. 
Splashing fountains and low cooing doves. 
There are faces of friends to greet them there. 
There are mothers and fathers, and all. 
There are nothing but friends in that Island fair. — 
With the whistle, the rattle and ball. 

It is time for the boatman, darling, dear. 
I can see the bright beads from his oar. 



Like a necklace of gems for babe to wear, 
As he pulleth for babyhood shore. 
He has taken my babe away to rest, 
They are merged in the sun's setting beams, 
I would give the whole world for such a nest 
As the Babyhood Island" of Dreams. 
Nov. 1 8. 1895. 

HUSH-A-BY, LULLABY, ROCKABY 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, 

Come cuddle your head down to rest. 

Lullaby baby, hush-a-by baby, 

Come nestle on this loving breast. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby. 

The sun is bright painting the west, 

Lullaby baby, hush-a-by baby 

The birds have all dropped to their nest. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

The shepherd is leading his flock to the fold, 

Huh-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

'Neath mother's soft wnngs creep the chicks from the cold, 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear, 

And mother her darling would tenderly hold. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Be baby as loving when mam-a grows old. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, 
Don't look at your ma-ma so wise. 

170 




Tliere's a beautiful Isle beyond the bay, 
That is peopled with babies and dreams. 



Lullal))- baby, bush-a-by, baby. 

Mv smiles arc my ba1)y"s l)luc sl.ics. 

liusb-a-b\ baby, ]iillal)y bal)y, 

Come cover your fringe curtained eyes. 

Lulla1)y bal)y, hush-a-by baby, 

It's losing itself in its sighs. 

liush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear, 

Your mother will watch you with tenderest care. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

The papa's warm kisses will both of us share, 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Xo matter how bu;:y, nor how he may fare, 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

His heart is at home with the loving ones there, 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby. 

In Slumber's cool 4)oppy groves creep. 

Lullaby baby, hush-a-by baby, 

Xo more do your drowsy eyes peep. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby. 

My baby at last is asleep, 

Lullaby baby, hush-a-by l)aby. 

Is sailing alone on the deep. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Be careful, dear fairies, the shallop is weak, 

Hush-a-by baby, lidlaby l)al)y, rockaby babv dear. 

Beware of the rocks, we its safety bespeak. 

Hush-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 

Restore the dear babe to the loved it will seek, 

171 



Hiish-a-by baby, lullal^y baby, rockaby baby dear. 
Are prayers cf our hearts all too holy to speak, 
Hiish-a-by baby, lullaby baby, rockaby baby dear. 
Nov. 19, 1895. 



AFTER AWHILE, DARLING 

Yes, after a while, darling, after a while 
The snows will all melt through the carpet of Spring, 
The birds we've long missed will again for us sing 
The hearts of the old and the young to beguile, 
After a while, love, after a while. 

Yes, after a w'hile, darling, after a while 
The clouds will be scattered now dripping with rain ; 
The landscape so barren be blooming again. 
Those clouds we shall bless which now we revile, 
After a while, love, after a while. 

Yes, after a while, darling, after a while, 
The aches and the pains which we suffer to-day 
Will all pass away, love, will all pass away. 
Our agonized faces will joyously smile. 
After a while, love, after a while. 

Yes, after a while, darling, after a while 
The sorrows we have and the tears which we shed 
In God's chosen time will all wisely have fled. 
Those tears will He dry that His image defde. 
After a while, love, after a while. 



Yes, after a uhile, darling, after a while 
Each cross that we bear under wdiich we now frown 
Time's alchemy, some day, will change to a crown, 
God will from our tears brightest rainbows compile, 
After a while, love, after a wdiile. 

Yes, after a while, darling, after a wdiile 
The Father will all to their loved ones restore 
Wlio drifted away to the shadowy shore 
But after a while, darling, after a while. 
All will be well, love, after a while. 

]\Iarch, 1901. 



173 



War Echoes 



"BURY ME WITH MY COMRADES 
SHOULD I IN BATTLE FALL. " 

These lines were suggested by the words of the brave 
Col. James Adelbert Alulligan of the famous Irish I brigade, 
who as lie started for the front made the sincere request, 
that he should be buried with his comrades if he should die 
on the battle field. 

Friends, farewell ! I leave you, 
But take with me your prayers. 
I know that grief is true 
When the seal of tears it bears. 
No words of mine can tell 
How sad is this adieu, 
In leaving friends so well. 
So dearly loved, as you. 

Yet as we sadly part 
I make this one request, 
(My lips but voice my heart 
So struggling in my breast), 
That should it be my lot 
Upon the field to die, 
Inter me on the spot 
Where I in falling lie. 

I wish no funeral train, 
Xo pomp nor grand display. 
Bring me not home again, 
But rather let me stay 
Where I in death have lain, 



Near those who with nie fall, 
"Unknown" amidst the slain, 
One common grave for all. 

To me will sweeter be 
In death my long, long sleep 
If left in company 
With those I living keep. 
Who fighting by my side 
May falling with me lie. 
Let nothing, friends, divide 
Those wdio together die. 

No rite, can life restore. 
Reanimate the blest. 
Sincerely I implore 
That you will let me rest 
With those who seek no fame, 
Who may in battle fall 
W'here love cannot reclaim 
Nor tears bedew the pall. 



178 



"LAY ME DOWN AND SAVE THE FLAG" 

Col. James A. Mulligan, who received three mortal 
wounds at Kernstown, Winchestei'f Va., on Sunday, July 2nd, 
J864 (expiring on the following Tuesday), ordered his men 
when bearing him from the field to lay him down and save 
the flag. 

The Colonel, with whom the writer was intimately ac- 
quainted, was of Irish parentage and one of the most chiv- 
alric men I ever met. This last command was in harmony 
with his lofty nature. 

The flag was saved; the hero fell 
As fall the brave who life would yield, 
'iVIid hissing shot, and bursting shell 
In vict'ry on the battle field. 
Devoted comrades flocked around 
To bear him from the field away, 
Till ordered, "Lay me on the ground. 
Advance, and save the flag, I pray." 

W'ith heavy hearts they lay him down. 

They leave their leader dying. 

And in the charge press bravely on, 

The foe before them flying. 

The North is saved, O ! hero grand, 

Thy life was nobly given. 

The flag of stars above our land 

Thy pathway lights to heaven. 

July 26. 1864. 



179 



"OUR LOSS WAS TRIFLING, ONLY 
ONE MAN KILLED" 

(Telegraphic dispatch.) 

Count you our loss a trifle 
That only one was slain, 
Because the foeman's rifle 
But one stretched on the plain? 
Oh ! who can weigh the sorrow 
In store for some sad life 
When conies the news to-morrow 
Who died in this day's strife. 

What though he were a stranger 
To fame and fellow man? 
He did not shrink from danger 
When duty led the van, 
And though the nation never 
May know his unmarked grave. 
His name be dropped forever 
In "roll call" of the brave 

Yet there are those who cherish 
That life we do not know 
Would willingly let perish, 
For it, all else below. 
Oh ! muffled drums, beat slowly. 
Oh! comrades, shed your tears 
Upon a grave so lowly. 
Unknown through coming years. 



180 



Oh ! maiden loved, and mother, 
How anxiously you'll wait 
And look at one another 
As creaks the swinging gate ; 
Your hearts will cease their beating 
At some approaching tread : 
Alas ! there is no meeting. 
The living with the dead. 

May Hope seek out and find you 
In your sad, loyal home. 
And dry the tears that blind you, 
And cheer through years to come. 
We cannot lift the sorrow 
Which on your hearts will lay, 
But breathe in grief to-morrow 
An Amen as you pray. 

January 12, 1864. 



181 



THE LAST WISH OF LINCOLN 

The Rev. Dr. Minor relates that when at Ford's Opera 
House the night the President was assassinated, Mr. Lincohi 
took but Httle interest in the performance, and was appar- 
ently thinking deeply upon some subject. At last he turned 
to his wife and remarked, "Mary, I need rest. I know 
what we will do ; after this administration is over we will 
go abroad, where I am personally comparatively unknown. 
I would like to travel through Europe, and I have a desire 
to visit the Holy Land, and especially would I like as far as 
possible to tread the same ground that Jesus trod. I would 
like to walk the streets of Jerusalem." 

At that moment, before the word Jerusalem had scarcely 
passed his lips, the assassin's bullet entered his brain. 

The dreadful war is ended; 
Our cause by God is blest 
And I am weary, Mary, 
Am much in need of rest. 
When all my tasks are finished, 
H so it please the Lord 
We'll seek the relaxation 
That we may find abroad. 
We foreign lands will visit 
Where we will be unknown 
And wander at our pleasure, 
Will journey all alone. 

I long to view the landscape 
Which our dear Saviour viewed, 

182 



To stand upon the mountain 
Where He while teaching stood. 
Would see the Holy City, 
Stroll through each narrow street, 
In rev'rcnce tread the by-ways 
jMade sacred by His feet. 

:ii :'f t * * '^ 

Oh ! weary man, so longing 

Hie cruel war might cease 

And bring each scattered household 

Beneath the wings of Peace! 

Who trustfully hath labored 

When hope in others fled. 

When living was but dying. 

The only happy-dead ! 

Who bore the nation's burdens, 

Who toiled when others sle])t, 

Within thy bosom bearing 

The griefs which others wept ! 

F'or Hope thou looked to heaven. 
When others failed to see. 
When loyal hearts were muffled. 
And tears alone sought thee. 
Thy heart so brave yet tender. 
Gave cheer where others sighed, 
Blest many a defender 
Who crushed, beside thee died. 

Oh ! cross ye not the ocean 

To stand where Christ has stood. 

183 



You need not seek the Jordan, 
Its tranquil flowing flood, 
Nor walk the rugged mountain, 
Nor shores of Galilee — 
The paths trod by our Saviour 
Have long been trod by thee. 
March i6, 1890. 

THE BURIAL OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN 

With heavy heart. 

With measured tread 

We march to muffled drum ; 

And tears will start. 

As we the dead 

Convey in sadness home. 

The minute gun, 

The tolling bell. 

The flag with crape we dress, 

The cloud hid sun 

All sadly tell 

The nation's dire distress. 

The brow o'ercast. 

The emblems worn, 

The whispered breath of prayer. 

Portray alas, 

That death has come. 

With mourners everywhere. 

184 



Oh ! martyr'd chief, 

To all a friend, 

How futile words appear 

To tell our grief 

As now we bend 

In tears above thy bier. 

We welcome here 

Thy sacred dust, 

Adore thy innate sense 

That scoffed at fear 

And placed its trust 

In God's just providence. 

Undimmed shall be 

Thy great renown, 

Through all time shall thou live 

For setting free 

A race bowed down, 

To thee, all homage give. 

Serene thy sleep, 
O ! friend so true. 
Beneath our prairie sod, 
And though we weep, 
We bow like you 
Unto the will of God. 

May I, 1865. 



185 



ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN FLAG 

Read at a Public Celebration at River Forest, July 4, 1885. 

Dark hung the clouds. How dark and drear, 

How wild the storm that raged on high 

Till did thy glorious stars appear 

Athwart the blue, colonial sky. 

Throughout the long and gloomy night 

Like faithful guards they vigils kept, 

From heaven pouring rays of light 

And watched the land where freedom slept. 

At morning streamed thy ruby bars 
Between soft clouds of pearly white. 
While on the blue still glowed thy stars 
Which shone so kindly through the night. 
With shouts the people raised thee then 
Upon the poles by May-day given, 
Returning to the sky again 
What our brave fathers took from heaven. 

Beneath thy jeweled folds they swore 
By their true blades, on bended knee, 
"Come life or death, come peace or war, 
This land of ours shall be free." 
Through years of strife, on flood and field 
They kept that solemn vow to heaven, 
Till tyranny was forced to yield 
And from our blessed land was driven. 

186 



The snows of X'alley Forge remain 
On thee, with crimson paths inlaid, 
Where, faint with hunger, racked with pain, 
Blood marks the beats that sentries made. 
No summer sun can melt that snow. 
No rain those blood-stains may remove. 
Upon them both thy stars shall glow 
As long as man shall freedom love. 

How eloquent thy mingled stripes 
Speak now to us of peace and wars. 
Both here reveal their prototypes 
In thy pure white and ruby bars. 
The red to us are emblems dear 
Of paths those noble heroes went 
Whose deeds all men this day revere. 
Whose lives for liberty were spent. 

The white, the paths our fathers trod 
When triumph bade the conflict cease. 
As with good aim and prayers to God 
Their old flint locks achieved a peace. 
In us renew their lofty zeal. 
And ever when thy folds we see 
May we a love enraptured feel 
For thee, proud Flag of Liberty. 



WASHINGTON AT TRENTON 

Call a halt;, brave commander ! Place sentries on guard, 
The broad Delaware shields you, in crushed crystal flows 
Between you and the victors who've pressed you so hard. 
Not a ray from the stars, the clouds darkness impose 
That you safely may rest from a sudden assault; 
Your sad soldiers unpaid, wives and children unfed, 
Are discouraged, exhausted ! Come, call here a halt. 
God his face has averted and freedom is dead ! 

Call a halt, brave commander ! Your soldiers return 

To their desolate homes where the mother and wife 

Add to matronly toils those of husband and son. 

There is nothing now left them, then spare them each life 

That was willingly offered, so long as they thought 

That a bravery undaunted, devotion and zeal 

Would expel the invader. But vainly they fought. 

Face to face, hand to hand, eye to eye, steel to steel ! 

Every step may be traced by their blood on the ground. 
Their rag shoes exclude neither frosts nor the rains. 
With their blankets in shreds, without mittens they pound 
Their poor sides, till their blood tingles warm through their 

veins. 
In your midst are the Tories, who love to disclose 
Your discomforts and plans : keen delight do they take 
In their efforts to thwart you, and thus serving your foes. 
Rest your men, brave commander, and here a halt make ! 



188 



Not a hope for the future, the past a dcspaii, 

Your men starving and tentless^ part down with disease, 

With munitions deficient, scant clothing to wear, 

Their just claims for their dues Congress cannot appease, 

With its treasury empty ; and ready to flee 

To the mountains in fear the proud foe to avoid. 

Every tyrant-sold slave is in high Christmas glee. 

Drinking toasts to the King, by whose gold they're employed. 

In big bumpers of beer, in bright goblets of wine 
Do they pledge to each other and friends far away. 
Through their glasses they see their loved homes on the 

Rhine, 
Where their rollicking mates are observing the day. 
There are toasts to their sweethearts, wild laughter and 

mirth. 
There are stories and songs in a tongue of their own. 
There are praises loud voiced for the land of their birth 
And derision for rebels they think overthrown. 

With a feeling of safety the Hessians carouse 

W^ell supplied and sure pay, their munitions the best. 

There is naught you can do your poor men to arouse, 

Who in misery long for slight comfort and rest. 

See them grope for the warmth of the ember's faint glow, 

Can their thoughts or their hopes light their sorrows and 

pain, 
Can these famishing men battling hunger and snow 
O'er the conquering Hessians in fight hope to gain? 



189 



All the forts you erected and cannons there placed 

Are possessed by the foe, and though bravely you fought 

Your long struggles were vain — you were conquered and 

chased 
From the states you defended. Your efforts were naught. 
Make a truce ! fold your flags ! and the contest give o'er. 
Your sad duty is plain. There is no hope ahead. 
Your poor men to their families quickly restore 
While we mourn we will praise you, but Freedom is dead! 

There was right-about wheel 
On the heels of retreat; 
There was clashing of steel — 
There was Hessian defeat. 
"The whipped rebels" not feared 
Had recrossed the wild stream. 
To their sentries appeared 
Like a ghost in a dream. 
There was amen to rest 
A good-morning to war, 
An amen to conquest — 
They were victors no more. 
There were stories unfinished. 
There were songs but half sung, 
Many glasses replenished 
That stood waiting unrung 
For the lips that should press 
Them in pledges no more. 
There were moans of distress, 
There were bright pools of gore. 

190 



There were bliic-cyed maidens with flaxen hair, 
With their hearts on furlough, beyond the sea. 
There were doting mothers, as everywhere, 
And in language foreign, on bended knee, 
Petitioned our God to be very near 
To their soldier sons on that Christmas day. 
But the Father alone does people hear 
Who delight in deeds for which Christ would pray. 
And the doting mother and blue-eyed maid 
As they hoped and waited for his return 
(Who was present still wherever he strayed), 
Saw^ his home-bound ship in the embers burn, 
And in hope little dreamed of what fate befell 
Many sons and lovers that Christmas morn. 
For Love was dumb, or its whispers fell 
On the ears too deaf for a tale forlorn. 

******* 

The shouts that arose on that keen morning air 
When heard in the homes of the tried and the true 
Soon drowned the late notes of lament and despair. 
Enkindled new faith, did high courage renew ; 
Those hopes that abided through winters and woes. 
That courage wdiich guided and steadfastly led 
Saw trailing arbutus bloom under the snows, 
A spirit reviving that many thought dead. 

Oh! his was the courage, defying defeat, 
That infused its own self in a handful of men, 
That victory forged in the flames of retreat, 

191 



Of yeomen discouraged, made heroes again. 
Oh ! his was the faith which to others imparted, 
A strength that without it to them was denied; 
And patriots made of luke-warm and faint-hearted, 
With cheers parted lips of the men as they died. 

^ ^ ^ ;|c H= :ic * 

Thou chieftain and defender. 

To whom in that dark hour 

Thy countrymen did tender 

Full dictatorial power, 

Thou didst grasp the purse and sword. 

Inspired by purpose grand 

Thou didst call upon the Lord 

To help the struggling land. 

He heard thy heart's petition, 

He saw thy bended knee, 

The nation's supplication 

He heard, and made it free. 

There were years of gloom and sadness, 
There was misery and pain, 
There were seldom smiles of gladness, 
More of losses than of gain. 
There was discord and disaster. 
There were foes in guise of friends, 
There were men and means to master, 
To be fashioned to thine ends. 

But the patriots confided 

In thy wisdom and thy ways, 

192 



Their faith in thee abided 
Through all those dismal days, 
And the power that they gave thee, 
Those hands that held up thine, 
Their pleas that God would bless thee, 
All made their lives sublime. 



The war at length was ended 
(It seemed 'twould never cease) 
And through the land extended 
The sweet refrains of peace. 
Across the stormy ocean 
The foeman took his way. 
Thy brow they bound. Oh ! Chieftain 
With laurel and with bay. 

The soldiers worn and weary, 
Those scarred and broken men. 
Returned from camps so dreary 
To their lone homes again. 
There noble hearts were lightened 
That long had been bowxd down 
And many faces brightened 
Which long no joys had shown. 

r.ut 'midst the happy meetings 
Tears answered quest'ning word. 
There were lips that trembled greetings, 
There were ears that never heard. 

193 



How great and sad the changes 
\'V hich those dark years had made ! 
Old friends now met as strangers 
Time had such tribute laid — 
The dear familiar faces, 
Had so much older grown — 
He left but faintest traces 
By which they could be known. 

The maiden and the lover, 
Though each on other gazed, 
Would often not discover 
The loved of other days. 
The lad a stranger eyeing 
His mother rushed to meet, 
Kept up an aw^kward shying 
When his father stooped to greet. 

******* 

The l.'ay and tlie laurel that circled his brow 
Whose birthday we meet to commemorate now 
By olive and myrtle supplanted had been; 
The first in the heart of his country again. 
Once more he approaches that beautiful river 
Years before by him crossed, his land to deliver. 
Xo ice is now crunching its way to the niain. 
No soldiers their duty performing in pain. 
No sentry now tallies his rounds in the snow. 
No homes are made hells by an insolent foe. 
But the calm benediction of peace is abroad. 

194 



'Jliose homes arc the shrines of the loved and the Lord. 

The river gHdes by hke Apollo's own street 

On which walks the sun in his silver-dressed feet. 

Young April now rules, old December debarred, 

The soldiers on furlough, the flowers on guard. 

The flowers on guard did I venture to say? 

Aye ! lilies and ladies are sentries to-day. 

The girls and the maidens wath each other vie 

With the cheek of the rose, with the violet's eye. 

The beauty and fragrance of Trenton are met. 

There an archway triumphant with flowers is set. 

Not a king or a hero did ever so move 

To the goal of his pride so guarded by love. 

The greetings that billowed the sweet-scented air. 

The words that were sung with the trumpets ablare. 

Were ovation and tribute, fit time and fit place. 

To the peer of the noblest who've toiled for the race. 

Read before the Oak Park Letters Club, Feb. 22, 1890. 



195 



LOYAL HEARTS AND HAPPY HOMES. 

Read before the Ladies of Phil Sheridan's Post, G. A. R., 
Oak Park, Nov. 15, 1890. 

I feel my strength is waning, wife, I weary am of toil. 
But I must mow the lower lot or else the hay will spoil. 
I should have cut it yesterday, but felt then so unwell 
It seemed to me so great a task Fd leave it for a spell. 
The tonic that the doctor left I've used a day or two 
And hope that in a little while it may my strength renew. 
But somehow, wife, I've "lost my sand" as Charley used to 

say; 
For now I dread as burdensome what formerly was play. 
'Twas music once when scythe and stone gave forth their 

merry ring 
As dear to me as when the lark its mellow song would sing 
I loved to see the green grass lie a tribute at my feet, 
A tribute which the summer air would spray in odors sweet. 
The keen blade hiding near the ground would seem without 

my heed 
To swing and sing as easily as blackbirds on a reed; 
All morn I'd toil and startle when I heard the horn at noon. 
And wonder how time sped so fast, why dinner was so soon. 

But now it is an effort, wife, a single swath to mow; 
Oft looking up I wonder why the sun should move so slow. 
I whet the scythe at every bout, if not half way between — 
Oft wipe my brow with handkerchief and on the old snath 

lean. 
The weeds ne'er in the garden grew one-half so fast and tall 

196 



The stones were never near the weight to lift upon the wall. 
And Buck and Bright, who years ago I thought so dreadful 

slow 
(Though they like me are getting old) now faster seem to go. 
On Thursday last we started off to take the load up hill 
And I declare it tuckered me to keep along, and still 
I nothing had to hold me back, no yoke or heavy load, 
Unless it be the yoke of years, that load by Time bestowed. 

Ves, wife, I feel I'm growing old, and sadly do I trace 
The wTinkles Time has lately ploughed across your saddened 

face. 
I miss our nol)le Charley, wife, and wonder when he'll be 
Back safely from the dreadful war, restored to you and me. 
Restored to us and Jenny, wife. How brave the dear girl is. 
The one of all the world, my dear, to be our girl and his. 
She has a true, brave woman's heart, yet when his name I 

speak 
The tears with smiles keep wrestling hard upon her anxious 

cheek. 
How she, dear wife, would comfort us with all her pleasant 

ways, 
With heart so tuned to tenderness and lips so voiced to 

praise. 
When right with Union wins the day and hate shall cease 

wnth war, 
How clouds will lift, and bright the sun for us \v\\\ shine 
once more ! 



197 



Still flows the stately Kennebec, as when 'twas first dis- 
covered, 
Where Nature hides its rugged banks, its rocks with verdure 

covered. 
Still glows the sun upon the fields that fringe the flowing 

rover, 
Still epauleted bumble bees hum toiling in the clover. 
A stalwart man in middle life a well hung scythe is swinging. 
A robin in an apple tree the same old song is singing. 
The toiler stops — he looks around; with sweat his brow is 

streaming : 
He gazes on the windrows wide, is lost in thought or dream- 
ing. 
He thinks of other fields he's seen with Death engaged in 

mowing, 
Where comrades lay like his broad swaths, with blood from 

deep wounds flowing. 
He hears the whistle of the ball, the shells around him 

shrieking, 
He sees companions near him fall^ but hears no words, 

they're speaking. 
He sees the royal-hearted north, rewarding w^ell-earned 

merit. 
Outranking kings — who crown and place may undeserved 

inherit. ' 

He sees the stars his country placed upon her valiant yeomen. 
He feels near thirty years have made firm friends of former 

foemen. 
And back of all he sees and hears the friends from whom 

he parted, 

198 



The words that his brave Jenny spoke, though ahiiost broken- 
hearted : 

The love that made their parted days arag through the 
months so slowly 

JIas blessed for years the worthy pair in bonds of wedlock 
holy. 

Their children cheer their days of toil, beguile their hours 
of leisure, 

Transforming duty's rugged road to charming paths of 
pleasure. 

To-day he sees upon the porch, the porch so wide and shady, 
A gentleman well bent with years, his wife a gentle lady. 
And as he leans upon his snath, is resting from his mowing. 
Four eyes, now dim, are turned to him, four lips him praise 

bestowing. 
The mother and the father aged together there are sitting. 
The father lays his Bible down; the mother drops her 

knitting. 
The old farm never looked so well, the crops ne'er promised 

brighter, 
The hearts of that old worthy pair this morn' were throbbing 

liehter. 



God bless such homes. His righteous crown on loyal heads 

descended 
Whose heart and feet together beat, who land and right 

defended. 



Where peace nor war leave not a scar upon their deathless 

story, 
Who to their homes as loyal are as ever to "Old Glory." 

Maine. Ausfust, 1890. 



200 



cTVliscellaneous Poems 



THE BIBLE 

Read before ihc Oak Park Bil)le Society, April 4, 1869. 

This, Father, is Thy Holy Word. 

Herein is crystalized the voice 

The early prophets treml)ling- heard. 

The dreams which make the world rejoice, 

Interpreting- Thy holy will. 

Those vivid visions of the just 

Are here preserved, and echo still 

Inspired songs of human trust. 

Herein dost Thou to us reveal 
Our duty and our destiny, 
Thy laws, Thy purposes and will 
Both now and through eternity. 
And while 'tis true we cannot see 
The breadth and compass of Thy plan, 
And may not solve the mystery 
Of pain and evil blessing man — 

While here diversity we find 

Of faith and thought, all taking hue 

From tints of glass that each one's mind 

In honest zeal is gazing through. 

As varied raindrops we do see 

Descending through prismatic light — 

Yet we in this do all agree 

Thy most essential law of right. 

20:^ 



The creeds of men, how weak, how vain, 
How unimportant in Thy sight; 
Yet those who differ most maintain 
With greatest warmth each one is right. 
And if' perchance it may be true 
Hope gilds Thy glowing page for me 
With brighter and a softer hue 
Than some who read are wont to sec. 

If I, relying on Thy love. 

Thy power, wisdom, and Thy will. 

Trust somehow, sometime. Thou wilt move 

To overcome with good all ill^ 

And bless each soul Thou didst create ; 

Believing that Thy Word reveals 

That such shall be the final fate 

Of all here bearing human ills. 

Still as a little child who knows 

But one small inlet of the sea 

In which he — thoughtless — pebbles throws 

Is my ken of eternity. 

I cannot. Father, grasp the theme. 

My poor, my weak, my finite thought 

Is like a disconnected dream. 

Beyond my faith in Thee, 'tis naught. 

Be this enough for me to know. 
Thou in this book demand'st of me 
That I shall always here bestow 

204 



My love to man — thus loving Thee. 
This Gospel with its great truth send 
To all the isles of farthest sea, 
May its sweet spirit closely blend 
The world's entire humanity. 



TECUMSEH 

The following is the historical incident upon which this 
poem is founded : 

In the spring of 1813, Colonel Dudley was sent to the 
relief of Fort Meigs which was besieged by Proc or and 
Tecumseh with a large force of British and Indians. After 
Colonel Dudley and about two hundred, and fifty of his men 
had been killed, the remainder surrendered, and their savage 
captors commenced butchering them in the presence of their 
English allies. 

Fast had the red man passed away. 
His power crumbled to decay ; 
The scattered bands of conquered braves 
Turned sadly from their fathers' graves, 
By man unpitied, God unblest, 
To range the prairies of the west. 
The dense old forests of the east, 
So filled with life of bird and beast 
Before the whites their homes had reared. 
With their wild game had disappeared. 
The simple signs which marked their dead, 
Where stated rites and forms were said 

205 



In honor of the brave or loved, 
By ax and plow had been removed, 
And left the tribes no traces more 
Where slept the fathers gone before. 
Canoes no longer danced the waves. 
Impelled by arms of steel-nerved braves, 
But palefaced sailors cunning set 
From stately masts the whitened net 
To catch the truant winds at play 
And yoked to bear man on his way. 
No longer rose outlandish shouts 
Of Indian children's sports and routs, 
Or clouds above their Council fire ; 
But hymns of praise, and lofty spire. 

For years had England tried in vain 
To stay the growth of our domain. 
While read the savage his dark fate 
As westward moved our growing state. 
The chief who chased in days of yore 
The elk upon Atlantic's shore 
Was wont upon the past to dwell 
And to his young companions tell 
The deeds of valor he had done. 
Of fields that by his arm were won. 
Of rocky hills, of pleasant dales, 
Of boundless forests, fertile vales 
Where he in youth had spent his days 
In wild athletic Indian plays. 



206 



Since strangers' feet first pressed the shore, 

With feeling told each tale of wrong 

His race had suffered, deep and long, 

From those to whom they first were kind 

His eyes flashed wild, his subtle mind 

Was filled with those revengeful schemes 

A\iiich fashioned all his thoughts and dreams. 

And as those wrongs he would relate 

The breasts of braves were filled with hate, 

And crimson lines would oft divide 

The red man's ebb. the white man's tide. 

The Indians stood like wolves at bay. 

Their lives as ransom glad to pay 

Could they again possess those lands 

Where once had roamed their countless bands. 

At length they ceased. The fruitless blows 

They aimed at their resistless foes 

They staid. Down the disheartened few 

The tomahawk despairing threw, 

And yielded, when to still resist 

Were vain, yet cursed the hand they kissed. 

Again the war-whoop woke the west. 
The brave Tecumseh, in whose breast 
There burned a patriotic fire 
That kindled hearts of son and sire 
Until the braves of every tribe 
His lofty s])irit did imbi])e 



Resolved, regardless of the cost, 
To yet regain what they had lost. 
Then England's chief with bloody hands 
Joined with the leader of these bands, 
And Proctor by his deeds proved he 
Outranked the braves in cruelty. 

Long Dudley fiercely fought, but vain. 
His men with him were mostly slain. 
The few surviving, forced to yield, 
Were helpless left upon the field 
When Proctor and his fellow whites 
Now gloated o'er the horrid sights 
Of Indians murdering the few 
Who, yielding, lived the battle through. 

The gun, the tomahawk and knife 
Took many an unresisting life. 
Before a brave on panting steed. 
Like thunderbolt from Jove relieved. 
Dashed in amidst the murderous crew, 
His rein upon his charger drew. 
And springing lightly to the ground, 
He fiercely on his warriors frowned. 
As lightnings in a cloudy sky. 
From his dark visage flashed his eye, 
As he with iron grasp did seize 
A brave and brought him to his knees. 
Another by a blow he felled 

208 



Then loud with wild defiance yelled 

*'By the Great Manitou I swear, 

He who to raise his hand shall dare 

Against a conquered hero's life 

Shall feel Tecumseh's vengeful knife.'' 

Then turning his yet flashing eye 

On Proctor, who was standing by, 

"Shame on the chief," he cried, "who throws 

His braves upon his fallen foes. 

The true man strikes but in the strife 

And shields his captive with his life." 

The white knave cringed before that frown 
And lying spoke, with eyes cast down, 
*Tn vain I lal)ored to restrain 
The maddened fury of your men." 
"Woman away," the chieftain said. 
Turning with scorn his lordly head, 
"Wear petticoats and not degrade 
The uniform on you displayed, 
He is not fit to lead a band 
Who can't enforce his own command." 

As thunders rumble in the sky 
E'en after lightnings quiver by. 
In murmurs deep did warriors vent 
The passions they within them penr. 
Yet not a man dared strike a blow 
Against their crushed and bleeding foe. 

209 



Thus did Tecumseh to his name 
Already bright add lasting fame : 
Taught magnanimity to those 
Who boast of theirs to conquered foes. 
And while mankind will Proctor blame, 
Link England with his deeds of shame, 
As patriot, chieftain, noble sage, 
Tecumseh lives on history's page. 

March, 1866. 



UPON DISINTERRING THE MOUND 
BUILDERS 

Suggested by seeing Mr. Kennicott. of the Academy 
of Sciences, working in the mounds on the Desplaines river 
bank in the fall of 1869. 

With reverence lift the sod. 
With care displace the mould. 
For images of God 
Were these in days of old. 
This dust by His own breath 
Was hallowed ages since. 
We're in the realms of death — ■ 
Due homage pay that prince. 

Seek ye to know the race. 

To learn their class and clan ? 



210 



In these frail relics trace 
llie standard of the man ? 
To know how long they've slept 
Beneath this billowed earth? 
Wlio lingered and who wept? 
What is such knowledge w^orth ? 

Hath this dull dust a tongue. 
These hones a language quaint, 
.\re signs along them strung. 
In symbols true though faint, 
Which can to thee convey 
The record of mankind? 
Canst thou midst such decay 
Some useful knowledge find? 

Friend, thou who in this clay 
Wouldst know an extinct race 
Canst learn as much to-day 
In thine own neighbor's face. 
The aims, the hopes, the cares, 
The passions' fitful flame 
Are ours, as they w^ere their? — 
In every age the same. 

Spare then these scars of Time 
On Nature's wTinkled breast. 
A husbandman divine 
Prepared this place for rest. 
Disturb no more these clods, 

211 



These wild-wood billows spare. 
Go ! leave these flowery sods 
To God's own loving care. 

Amidst the winter's gloom 
These trees in grief will bend, 
And on each silent tomb 
Will leaves like tears descend; 
Let Spring's sweet floral train 
Renew its fragrant pall, 
And plant her flowers again 
To blossom over all. 

Let Summer leave her care, 
The fields of growing grain. 
And deck with garlands rare 
These children of the plain. 
Let Autumn in her grief 
So suited to the dead. 
Entwine with russet leaf 
A chaplet for each head. 

The story of our race, 

Man's birth, his life, his death, 

In every time and place 

Is summed in this short breath- 

"They were, they are no more." 

With this be thou content. 

Death's sacred shrines restore. 

And leave these crypts unrent. 

212 



ERISICHTHON 

Oak Park received its name from its numerous large, 
beautiful oaks. One deserving- particular mention trespassed 
a little u])on the sidewalk and was chopped down, in spite 
of the pleading- children, the tears of some, and the unani- 
mous protest of the neighborhood. The outrage reminded 
me of the mythological story of Erisichthon, and I wrote 
the following poem, and read it before the Oak Park Literary 
Society, December lo, 1870: 

'Twas in that dim, far-distant, fabled age 
When fancy led the thought of child and sage. 
When star and rock and singing stream and tree 
Had each its own presiding, deity. 
That on the border of a brook there stood 
A widespread oak, the monarch of the wood. 
Among its boughs the wild birds came and went. 
Like Arabs pitched their light nomadic tent. 
Sweet songs expressed the bliss of many breasts 
As Zephyr rocked with lullaby their nests. 
Beneath its grateful shade the hajipy band 
Of Dryads danced, hand clasped in friendly hand, 
Or wreathed their votive garlands high above, 



And breathed in unison their deathless love. 
To Ceres sacred, it for ages stood 
Revered, beloved bv all the neighborhood. 



A scoffer of the gods, a man profane 

Was Erisichthon. P)reathc(l for him in vain 

The music sweet of Nature, that doth find 

213 



A more than welcome in each noble mind ; 

That wells the heart with silent, mystic runes, 

With God through waves and leaves and air communes, 

The starry guardians of the silent night, 

The rainbow's tints, the penciled rays of light, 

The glow of morn, when lifts the night's dark pall, 

The dews where stars lie broken in their fall, 

To his low mind and sordid, groveling heart 

No charms conveyed, nor no beauties art. 

To him the waving grain was so much food. 

The oak's sole value was its worth as w^ood. 

And as it chanced one lovely summer's day 

He and his men were passing by that way 

The oak, that seemed the clouds to rock on high 

His bold course stopped as quick it caught his eye. 

"By Jove," he cried, "Here growls a goodly pile, 

Down with it, boys, and I will rest the while." 

His woodmen heard with horror and dismay 
His wicked charge, yet dared to disobey. 
Their honest hearts made eloquent each plea. 
So sacred to the gods they held the tree : 
The zeal of one found vent in words so hot 
That Erisichthon slew him on the spot. 
With bloody ax still dripping in his hand 
In rage he thus addressed his shocked command : 
"Were this grand oak a god itself, I swear 
I'd lay it low. and limb from limb would tear." 

With frenzied heart and gloomy, vicious frown 
He raised his ax to cut the monarch down. 

214 



I'Vom every one arose a saddened moan, 

W bile from each leaf escaped a troubled groan. 

W'ilb all bis slrengtb he struck the shuddering- oak, 

When from the heart the tree-nymph, dying, spoke 

As poured in streams her life's blood to the ground, 

W itli voice prophetic breathing through the wound. 

He i)aid no heed to protests or to feaib, 

To blood of nymph or woodmen's falling tears. 

He toiled with beaded brow and bated breath 

Till oak and nymph lay at his feet in death. 

To fields where Ceres did her cares bestow 
Dark robed and sad the weeping Dryads go, 
Anfl in their grief swift ])unishment invoke 
Upon the sp';i]er of the sacred oak. 
She nods assent, the tall and bearded grain 
Bows its consent, then stands erect again, 
As from her lips goes forth the stern decree — 
"Let Famine seize the spoiler of the tree !" 

Upon Caucasus" wastes and sterile mount 
Did i*'amine dwell, in terror, cold and want. 
Hence sped the Oread that Ceres sent. 
Whom Famine found in labor most intent : 
With teeth she drew from stony, frozen ground 
Such scanty herbs as in the north are found. 
With hair unkempt, pale face and sunken eye, 
With dust begrimed, blanched lips and jaws awry. 
She heard what had the Oread to sa\ . 
The mandate stern she hastened to r.be\ . 



Outstripping- winds she cleft the midnight air, 
The scoffer's couch she sought, and found him there. 
Beneath her wings she heard the doomed man groan. 
Breathed in his breath the poison of her own, 
His heart did poison, every throbbing vein. 
Then back to Scythia she flew again. 

In troubled dreams the wretched man craved bread, 
He wildly moved his jaws as being fed. 
Asleep, awake, his constant^want the same. 
For food, food, food, of every kind and name. 
The sea and earth were under tribute laid 
To stay a hunger never to be stayed. 

He did but eat ; but eat did he in vain. 
Gnawed Famine at his vitals just the same. 
He spent his gold and sold his fertile lands. 
Relentless Famine pressed her stern demands. 
His wealth is gone ; his daughter must atone. 
She, too, is sold and he is left alone— 
For gold is sold, with which to buy his meat, 
For Famine still demands that he shall eat. 

H: ^ * * jH 5i: * 

Oh ! Heaven, how oft has virtue been led 
A sacrifice sad to shelter and bread. 
A^'hat rivers of wrong through ages have run 
As Famine has forced what virtue would shun. 

;(; Hs 5^ * * * H^ 

With hands pressing heart, with tears in her eyes. 
To Neptune she turns, imploring she cries, 

216 



''Rise up with thy trident, rise from the main ! 
O ! save me, thou god, from ruin and shame." 
The waves that rolled near and broke on the shore, 
Concealed her in mists that wrapped her so o'er, 
A fisherman's garb she seized for disguise, 
Escaping by flight her master's keen eyes. 

Again and again the maiden was sold, 
But Neptune, her friend, that wizard of old. 
Transformed her to horse, to stag, and to ])ird. 
Scarce raising his hand or breathing a word. 
But not enough food for him could be bought ; 
Till dying of want the starving man sought 
To tear from his limbs, his body and feet 
The flesh he in pain would greedily eat 
Till, Ceres avenged, at length Pity lefl 
Erisichthon unwept to the realms of the dead. 



THE LITTLE HERO 

A True Incident. 

A boy aged ten with his sister of eight 
Had started from school on a terrible day 
With satchel of books, with his basket and slate, 
For home on the prairie some two miles away. 
The clouds hung their banners of black in the sky. 
The long, winding path had been lost in the snow. 
The wind below zero went whistling by. 
All making their journey exceedingly slow. 



The storm was fast weaving the curtains of night, 
But bravely the little ones fought their way on. 
Till objects familiar w^ere hidden from sight. 
And the last rays of light had inhumanly gone. 
In gloom they descended a rocky ravine 
In hopes they could find a retreat more secure, 
Where banks overhanging their faces would screen, 
From Death's frozen breath that they could not endure. 

The hearts of the tender must chill at the thought 
Of suffering borne on that terrible night-- . 
The battle so brave the gallant boy fought. 
With none to encourage, no succor in sight. 
Their frozen remains were discovered at morn. 
The coat of the boy was encircling his mate, 
Wliile he, unprotected, received the wild storm. 
In duty unflinchingly meeting his fate. 

His valor was not that aroused by applause. 
As men, cheered by comrades, in battle array. 
Inspired by excitement, unheeding their cause 
Will fight like wild beasts ; but such seldom display 
The sentiment lofty that this boy had shown 
While bravely awaiting the coming of fate. 
With God for his comrade, and Duty alone 
The sentry that paced by his life's closing gate. 

February, 1875. 



218 



THE INDEPENDENT MAN 

How grand the man (^f independent mind, 

Of firm convictions, to dissenters kind. 

In manner modest, yet who never shrinks 

From telHng men exactly what he thinKs. 

Who does not wait till he can ascertain 

How stand his friends, whom he might lose or gain, 

But, weighing well the subject, through and through. 

Makes up his mind to what he thinks is true, 

Then to it grapples as with hooks of steel, 

His lips expressing what his heart may feel. 

But little does the verdict of the world 
Disturb the peace of him who never furled 
The flag of right, or hid from outward gaze 
Has compromised the truth, to win the praise 
Of knavish men, of party, or of clan, 
Who praise the deed, but straightway loathe the man 
Who never barters these for place nor fame. 
But with high virtue links his honored name. 
Who steadfast holds to what is just and right. 
Though present gain be lost, perchance, to sight. 

Obsequious puppets those v. ho kneel or spring 
As scheming masters pull the hidden string; 
Who dare not breathe a downright honest word 
But wait until their keepers' views are heard. 
Are either hot or cold, are fast or slow 
As feel their lords, or wish to have them go. 

219 



Those inert ciphers, living but in breath, 
While naught in life, are little less in death. 

April 9, 1876. 



"WILD OATS" 

Lines suggested upon seeing a crop of weedy oats in the 
Congregational Church yard, Oak Park, in the summer of 
1876. 

It used to be said, and accepted as truth, 

Wild oats were by men, mostly sowed in their youth, 

But experience teaching a loss by the crop. 

The sowing with youth would with most of them stop : 

With, tears of remorse, early plantings they'd burn. 

And deep underneath, the old fallow would turn, 

Then carefully choosing the right kind of seeds. 

Would sow for a harvest of virtuous deeds. 

But some of our christians continue the plan 

Still sowing in age, as in youth they began. 

And like the world's sinners, with oats planting tares. 

They pass through them both on the way to their prayers. 



220 



THE VILLAGE CHURCH 

The little church on the village green 

Has stood for twenty years. 

The same good shepherd, now as then 

Unites the flock in prayers. 

For twenty years the doors have swung 

For death and wedding trains; 

The bell these twenty years has rung. 

As pulsed the human veins. 

The village smith, of honored name, 

Does still the choir lead 

His "do, me, sol," for years the same, 

Have been from one fork keyed. 

The hymns are what the pilgrims sang 

Replete wath hope or dread, 

As in their joy their voices rang 

Or breathed above their dead. • 

How changed the choir ! That voice w^e heard 

So clear above the rest. 

Like happy song of joyous bird 

Low circling o'er its nest, 

Is sweetly singing lullabys — 

The "tenor" bears the strain 

And opens wide its little eyes, 

Then smiling, sleeps again. 

The freckled, red-haired boy, so slurred 
By girls, has grown since then ; 

221 



In legislative halls is heard, 
The peer of honored men. 
How faded are the curtains green 
That hid from public view 
The idle gossip, which between 
The younger singers flew. 

The sexton old, with kindly smile. 

Still meets you at the door. 

And meekly marches up the aisle 

As twenty years before. 

One Sacred Book has this time given 

The texts, from which to draw 

The beauty of the road to heaven. 

The terrors of the law. 

Graves faster than the town have grown. 

And names once held so dear 

Are chiselled deep in slabs of stone 

And seldom do we hear. 

The locks of youth are turned to gray, 

The locks of gray to dust ; 

And those we once heard sing and pray 

Are laid away in trust. 

The name upon this little stone 
Is of the pastor's child : 
And since her death — his only one — 
The stern man seems more mild. 
His tender heart in sympathy 



\'ibrates to otlicrs' woes. 

'J1ic fount of sorrow dims liis eye 

And quickly overflows. 

Xo more he speaks of God as King 

Who judges to reprove, 

But Father calls, and l)ids us cling 

To Him in trustful love. 

Of His great goodness does he speak — 

His mercy,, tender care 

O'er all His children, strong or weak, 

At all times, everywhere. 

Long may the band of neighbors meet 

Around the open door. 

And cordially each other greet. 

The wealthy and the poor. 

They've learned the Master's lesson true, 

They live it every day : 

What they would have each other do 

Most heartily do they. 

October 17, 1876. 



223 



OURSELVES AND OUR NEIGHBORS 

Why do we choose to men abuse, 
Why given so to slander? 
Wherefore refuse to each his dues 
And not treat all with candor? 
Why try to read in every deed 
Some selfish thought impelling, 
And strive to see if possibly 
A ' virtue hides a failing ? 

And women, too, is rumor true, 

Will speak of one another 

As hard as men will now and then 

Berate an erring brother. 

They put afloat in scandal's boat 

Base gossip none should cherish. 

Without an oar they push from shore 

Some friendless one to perish. 

Find they a mote they seem to gloat, 

No beam the while descrying, 

For that, you see, could hardly be. 

Themselves they are not eyeing. 

But sister this has gone amiss— 

At least 'tis so suspected — 

Yet what do they, what kind word say 

To have the wrong corrected? 

Our faults we screen, we do not mean 
To magnify by showing: 

224 



If heart within is full of sin 

What good in neighbors knowing? 

Now is it fair, if we're aware 

That others share our weakness, * 

To make theirs known and hide our own 

'Xeath hyi)ocritic meekness? 

Were all expressed that's in our breast, 
What's inside, outside wearing, 
Did we reveal just what w^e feel 
'Twould set the world to staring. 
Could neighbors tell what in us dwell, 
As who lives in next dwelling, 
The change there'd be, unless you'd see. 
You'd credit none in telling. 
April 28, 1878. 

THE VILLAGE BELL AND THE BELLE 
OF THE VILLAGE 

In that beloved spot where my heart does yet dwell 

The pride of the place was the old village bell, 

High up in the steeple it swung to and fro, 

As pulses of people beat lively or slow. 

A toll for the dead, or a bright wedding peal, 

It talked to us all just as though it could feel. 

We knew every note which it threw in the air. 

Arousing to fire, or inviting to prayer. 

The rich and the poor and the young and the old, 

All counted the age of the mourned when it tolled. 



The robin in spring, quickly over its fright, 
Would drink m its din with a seeming delight. 
While, guarding its nest, it sat turning its head. 
As wishing to know what the old sexton said, 
Not one in the village but loved the dear bell. 
Hov/ far it was heard to the stranger would tell. 
But the boys of the place, it was plain to behold 
Loved better a belle not a quarter as old ; 
Who never assembled so much of a crowd, 
Nor would it, nor could it talk a quarter as loud. 

Not this one the tongue that the neighborhood loved,- 
That silent remained save a heavy rope moved : — 
It needed no rope like the high hanging bell ; 
A smile or a word, always answered as well. 
Its tongue you could hear mid the laughter of girls 
When playing bo-peep back of breastworks of pearls. 
If it called not to worship, we gathered to praise 
The beautiful belle and her sweet, winning ways. 
Now which was loved best, I'll not venture to tell, — 
The belle of the village, or the old village bell. 

April II, 1879. 



226 



THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE 

Oh ! the bravest of mortals not always are found 

On the steel-bristled hill with its batteries crowned, 

Where the boys at the guns are awaiting the foe, 

Slowly forming to charge in the valley below: 

Nor with those who sweep up the steep hill from the plain, 

As the white feathered crests of the storm-troubled main, 

When the silence of death faces men to their sins, 

Ere the roar of the guns and of rifles begins; 

In their valor encased as in armor of yore, 

Though with cheers they rush in at destruction's broad door 

With no fears for the future, nor tears for the past, 

While their cup of life's joys with huzzahs from them cast, 

Brave indeed are the soldiers thus ready to go 

To the future unknown, from the scenes here below, 

Nor the heroic men who from deck and from spar 

Stand unawed at their posts when the elements war, 

Or removing slain mates that some broadside has mowed, 

Take their places at guns which they grimly reload, 

But the bravest of all is the heart buried maid 

Making Duty an altar, on which she has laid 

All her hopes, aspirations, and everything dear, 

Seeing all turn to ashes, and year after year, 

The deserted cage hiding, whose birds are all flown, 

Making up for their songs, tender chants of her own. 



"BY THEIR FRUITS YE SHALL KNOW 
THEM" 

Beneath the shade of golden russet tree 

One holy Sabbath of our Autumn days 

A good old man thus voiced his thoughts to me 

Whose deeds through life won tribute sweet of praise. 

"AMien young I preached," said he, "on holy themes; 
Expounded doctrine, aimed my flock to keep 
Where ancient prophets, in their holy dreami 
Revealed still waters; where the chosen sheep 
Might graze in pastures green. Yet now I find 
I far have drifted from those landmarks dear. 
My old time creed long left I far behind. 
The lights by which my bark I once would steer 
I lost. As down the boundless west the sun 
His rays had cast, and darkness drew its veil, 
Each old familiar beacon, one by one 
Grew slowly dim, then utterly did fail. 
In fogs and darkness dense I groped my way, 
My chart and compass studied, cast my lead, 
Until at length I saw the morning ray, — 
And Paradise was stretching close ahead. 

How endless seemed that night ! How far the day ! 

I did not wish to sail an unknown sea. 

I did not mean from friends to drift away 

With whom so long I lived in sympathy. 

I did not question what in youth was taught. 

228 




3 
o 

o 
o 

<v 

-^ G 

c "5 



<: - 



I held the tenets of my church, indeed 

Its very name^ the price at which was bought 

My everlasting grace; thus held my creed. 

Secure I felt within its happy fold. 

And if at times I some things held in doubt, 

Those which I valued more than wealth untold 

Would soon the flame of heresy put out. 

I knew that I was right; who differed, wrong; 

Rejoiced my Calvinistic bow to draw, 

Defended I my creed with logic strong. 

I knew no man could in it find a flaw. 

I scoffed at reasons theologians gave 

For views they held, when dift'ering from mine. 

I certain was that God would no man save 

Unless he bowed before my hallowed shrine. 

Good, Christ-like deeds considered I as naught. 

Belief alone could win the heavenly prize. 

Foreordination I had always taught 

Secured the few their mansions in the skies. 

But time, which spread these branches, broadened me. 

As fruit in season mellows, so did I ; 

And musing here beneath this noble tree 

I ripened like the russets that here lie. 

Of creeds, I find there merit is in each, 

But prize the life much more than idle talk. 

I think far less of how a man may preach 

Than how we find him in his daily walk. 

I care not by what name a tree you call 
Or name of church to which a man may go. 

229 



The fruit of tree it value gives to all, 

And man's esteemed for good that he may do. 

That corner tree, if christened no one knows. 

Its fruit has borne the palm wherever tried, 

And through the state I question if there grows 

So good an apple, or with fame so wide. 

It stood there when I bought the garden spot. 

The other trees I planted when I came ; 

But in my peerless orchard there is not 

A tree so prized as this without a name. 

The lesson then that this fact teaches me 

Is, waste no time in valueless dispute. 

God does not care what name man gives a tree, 

Its worth, as man's, he judges by the fruit. 

Dec, 1879. 



MARY HAD A LITTLE GOAT 

Mary had a little goat. Its fleece was black as jet, 

And every time he butted her he hurt her, now you bet. 

He butted her to school one day, and butted her when there. 

The other girls kept out the way, which wa'nt exactly fair ; 

And so the teacher turned him loose, but still he lingered 
near 

And butted Mary like the deuce when next she did appear. 

"What makes the goat butt Mary so?" the little children 
cried. 

"Because he has but her to butt," the schoolma'am quick re- 
plied. 

■ 2.30 



On top of a toboggan slide did Mary fix her coat, 

And when we swung the barn doors wide out sprung the 

Billy Goat; 
He saw the sleeves flop in the air, he gave a great big jump; 
He thought that Mary sure was there,— he'd knock her in a 

hump. 
He sprang like lightning up that hill, he slid off in the sky, 
And I believe he's up there still. Our BUTTER bill is high. 

Feb., 1883. 

LINES WRITTEN IN MISS A. A.'S ALBUM 

When you request my autograph, 
Tis not my writing you would see, 
Unless you too intend to laugh 
As many others do at me. 
'Tis not to sneer at how I write, 
But wish to know what I shall say. 
What sentiment I will indite, 
How link my name to words to-day. 

In after years as you this book 
Slow musing, turn its pages o'er, 
And on the "hand" once more shall look, 
While face, perchance, you see no more. 
May it recall the happy days 
That you in our dear home have spent, 
Made brighter by your pleasant ways, 
A shadow leaving when you went. 
June 15, 1879. 

231 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM 
OF MY NIECE, JULIA E. 

Who with Honor Bears a Cherished Family Name. 

From sire to son, is often handed down 
Some title, rank, or richly jeweled crown, 
So "Julia" does from many dames descend, 
An honored name, to thee, my little friend. 

I pray your life may useful be as theirs; 
As full at least of joys, and free from tears, 
Or if tears come, as come they sometimes will, 
Do not forget the sun shines somewhere still. 
And if to-day 'tis hidden from your view, 
To-morrow it will brightly shine for you. 

June 30th, 1874. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A LITTLE 
GIRL'S AUTOGRAPH ALBUM 

" 'Twould truly give me great delight 
To write my name if I could write. 
But did I try, you'd sure remark 
' 'Twere better had he made his mark.' " 

his 
Ed. X Gale, 
mark. 



232 



LINES WRITTEN ON A PAGE OF MISS H. B.'S 
ALBUM 

Which was Wreathed wiih F^lovvers and I'utterflies. 

These butterflies, sporting midst flowers so fair, 
Like segments of rainbows adrift in the air, 
Where all is so charming, resplendent and bright, 
Will scarcely give thought on some bud to alight, 
But happily roam until weary at length 
They drop to the earth to recover their strength. 

So you, as you wander among the dear names. 
Where each from your heart a bright tribute still claims 
As sentiments tender they all of them bring. 
Recalling their presence in songs they may sing. 
With smiles and with sighs^ will you turn the leaves o'er 
And butterfly like will continue to soar 
Until you get weary, when does your strength fail. 
Drop down for this chat with 
Your friend, 

E. O. Gale. 



233 



LINES WRITTEN IN MISS ANNIE'S ALBUM 

In Response to a Request, "Please Give Me 
Your Name." 

I blushed when you said^ "Please give me your name." 

I knev^ it was leap year^ that you knew the same. 

I stammered and stuttered, knew not what to say, 

And craved my reply be deferred for a day, 

For men over sixty can hardly suppose, 

(And married at that) a young girl would propose. 

In thinking it over I beg to decline. 

Yet hope the next answer will differ from mine. 

Pasadena, Calif., January 28th, 1896. 



LINES WRITTEN BY REQUEST IN MISS 
DAISY POLK'S BIRTHDAY BOOK 

The Lines by Tennyson on May 7th, Being 

"The child would twine 
A trustful hand unasked in thine." 



Hadst thou but known me, Tennyson, 
I fear thou wouldst not thus have sung, 

But yet, in trust my sons would run 
To twine in mine their fingers young: 

For many years with me thus strolled, 
In loving trust that knew no fear. 

And now that sun has westward rolled, 

234 



My shadow showing night draws near, 
I still feel baby fingers twine, 

The children of our sons — now men, 
To wile me from my day's decline. 

And face me to its morn again. 

New York, May 7, 1832. Pasadena, Dec. 7, 1896. 



A COLD W^ATER TOAST 

To my friends, Mrs. and Mr. J. H. H. 

I pledge in a glass which no homes undermine — 
As pearls of grief flow, from the blood of the vine, — 
But drops the sun draws from the storm clouds above 
Fit drink for the rose, for the child, and the dove. 
This wish of our hearts let us give as our toast ; 
"Good health and long life to our hostess and host. 
May she in her daughter live, he in his son, 
The lives of the four sweetly blending as one. 
Find bliss in their usefulness, rounding their years 
W'ith life's choicest blessings with few of its tears." 

Feb. 16, i88r. 



2a5 



"THE JILTED MUSE" 

Reply to "Rambler's" charge in the Oak Park Vindi- 
cator, that "business men become so engrossed in the chase 
for Mammon that they lose all love for the beauties of na- 
ture." 

We sadly read your "Jilted Muse," 
And learned of her distresses 
Because she thinks we now refuse 
Her by-gone day caresses, — 
That Mammon now our visions seal 
To charms which once delighted. 
That hearts grown cold no longer feel 
The love once gladly plighted. 

We see no more fair, blushing Dawn. 

Let down her ruby bars, 

Nor Ceres in the waving corn, 

Nor fabled gods in stars. 

We do not hear the wood Nymphs call, 

Nor notice tiny elves 

That swarmed in grove and waterfall 

When we were our true selves. 

No more for us docs Flora spread 
The landscape's brilliant dyes, 
Nor turn to us from fragrant bed 
The modest pansies' eyes. 
The apple blossoms lock their gates. 
Their wealth of sweet perfume ; 




We sadly read your "Jilted Muse 
And learned of her distresses, 



But poison hemlock on us waits 
In forests murky gloom. 

We cannot think all this is true, 

That ne'er do we behold 

Where sunset breaks on coasts of blue 

In limpid waves of gold; 

That rainbow with their ancient seal, 

God's promise to the world — 

Can now-a-days not make us feel 

As that first seen unfurled. 

Do we not think the crystal dew 

The tears Aurora shed, 

And trust that Memnon story true 

Which we in boyhood read ? 

If this we see. and this w^e hear, 

We are not as you say, 

But hold we now those loves as dear 

As in life's happy May. 

April 20, 1887. 



237 



"STROKE BY STROKE" 

Motto of the Oak Park High School Class of 1891, 
"Stroke by stroke," the legends run : 
In golden rhyme the oars they bind : 
The High School class of Ninety-one 
Life's open gates before them find. 
Oh ! girls and boys of lofty aims, 
Who "stroke by stroke" have made your way, 
With laurel leaves we'd wreathe your names, 
And while we grasp your hands to-day 
We trust the motto of your class 
May be through life your battle cry; 
And man and dame, now youth and lass. 
Shall wear the crown of victory. 

'Twas "stroke by stroke" of heavy oar. 

With face the while towards happy homes. 

You pulled for learning's distant shore 

Through dreary wastes of musty tomes. 

Though far at times the journey seemed, 

And but the outline of the coast 

Of that fair land of which you dreamed 

Is all you see as yet, at most, 

Still years in earnest study spent. 

Your steady pulling at the oar. 

Your mind in one direction bent 

Has schooled you and prepared you for 

Still greater toil you must go through 

If you would profit by the past, 




'■J '^ 



•Eh 2 

? 2 



i3 ^ 



If you the shore you're coming to 

Would yet possess, would gain at last. 

Your lahor is not ended yet. 

Though near the shore, far inland lies 

The gem on which your heart is set. 

You yet must toil to win the prize. 

Life's earnest journey just begins 

When backs are turned on school house door, 

And he alone in life's race wins 

Who "stroke by stroke" pulls at the oar. 

Where long had Hoosac's rocks defied 

The skill of man to penetrate, 

Now iron horse doth smoothly glide 

As coachman drives through open gate — 

And commerce draws its iron thread 

Through eye where titans granite hurled. 

Twas "stroke by stroke," then straight ahead 

The pulse beat of the business world 

Was felt beneath the rocky dome 

Where sun and stars shed not a ray, 

But Vulcan in his smoky home 

Night's fetters fastened on the day. 

With "stroke by stroke" the pioneer 

Assailed the forests of the east. 

Long sang his keen ax, loud and clear, 

Ere came his children to the feast 

In "round up" of Thanksgiving days. 

When pumpkin vines, and gobbling lords 

239 



Ran through the rows of rustling maize, 

Forerunners of homes' banquet boards. 

The rough log cabin's puncheon floor, 

The home-made table by the wall. 

The latch-string hanging from the door, — 

'Twas "stroke by stroke" that gave them all. 

'Twas "stroke by stroke" that gave them these, 

That let the fretted sunbeams through 

The waving tops of lofty trees. 

Till Cyclop's eye of cabin new 

Turned back the sun's expiring ray. 

Aye. "stroke by stroke !" So grew the mart 

Where pioneers first led the way. 

'Twas "stroke by stroke'' that gave the start. 

And stroke by stroke alone will win 

Where brain and muscle each attend. 

'Tis "stroke by stroke" as you begin, 

'Tis "stroke by stroke" unto the end. 

THOSE HANDSOME ARE WHO 
HANDSOME DO 

Not all of beauty is confined 
To winning wiles and faultless face. 
The lofty thoughts which fill the mind. 
The arts which spring from gentle grace 
When heart shall prompt to noble deed 
And kindly words through it express, 
Mere facial beauty far exceed. 
And stamp the plain with loveliness. 

240 



THE DRAINAGE CANAL AND THE CHICAGO 
RIVER 

Having been a resident of Chicago since the Sjiring of 
1835, when there were only about six hundred white people 
in the Town and several thousand Indians, I have seen our 
river in its varied conditions, and realizing the effect of the 
Drainage Canal upon it I thus soliloquized. 

I never more at nightfall 
Shall see the birch canoe 
Propelled by paddles, softly, 
Come slowly into view% 
And, pine knot burning brightly. 
The savage 'neath the gleam 
With spear move like a phantom 
Upon its burnished stream. 

I wish that I could conjure you 
The creek as it was then. 
Within the glass of memory 
. I see it all again. 
But speech is traitor to my wish, — 
Refuses to portray 
Its beauty as I saw it first 
One charming morn in May. 

I love in contemplation sweet 

To bring it back once more. 

To watch its sun-tipped waters kiss 

The blue flags near the shore. 



Again upon its surface smooth 
I launch my mimic boat, 
And see as 'twas but yesterday 
It slowly from me float. 

We hail thee, little river. 

Thou child of scented plain ! 

Thy sad, polluted waters 

Will soon be clear again. 

Those mighty glacial furrows. 

Thrown open by the Lord, 

Through which have passed such torrents, 

Once more shall be restored. 

The floods of these fresh oceans 
Through their old channels pour. 
The savage and the trader, 
Though banished evermore. 
In portage they made use of 
Blazed well for us the way; 
Canoes with their pelt cargoes 
Led the commerce of to-dav. 



242 



THE WORLD'S COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION 

Boom forth, ye guns ! Ye trumpets blare ! 

Let smoke and noise pervade; 

For all the world has here pitched camp ; 

Is out on dress parade. 

Some modern Dido waved her wand 

Above our Lybian sands, 

And lo ! the marvel of the age 

This Western Carthage stands. 

No warlike Hannibal here vows 

Eternal hate to Rome ; 

No Marirs is here to tell 

Its grandeur overthrown. 

The benedictions of mankind 

On it are freely given, 

While hosts in varied languages 

Invoke the grace of heaven. 

Aladdin's well-trimmed lamp was lit 

Beside our inland sea. 

And by its light the world has met 

To view this mystery. 

The waves which tossed the birch canoe 

So lately by our shore 

Now moan their plaints to palaces 

That princes might adore. 

Here stretched along these curved lagoons, 

Where dance sweet waters clear, 



243 



Fair Venice her chaste cohimns rears 
And greets her gondoHer. 

No surly Saracen stands guard 

Around this Western shrine ; 

All tribes and nations welcome are 

To our new Palestine. 

Here Hermit Peter's motley hordes 

May come with zeal sincere — 

No blocxl-encrusted battle ax 

To harrow them with fear. 

Here York and Lancaster may meet, 

Each bring its standard rose. 

The breath of both shall blended be, 

Their friends no longer foes. 

Here hand in hand joins man to man. 

Though tongues to each unknown 

The language of the eye doth speak 

The same in every zone. 

Here all religions kindly meet, 

A Mecca this for each. 

The shrines they raise make hallowed ground, 

And sacred what they teach. 

This refuge mart, as Moses taught. 

To all is "neutral ground," 

For crime alone may menaced be 

Whoever here are found. 

Here meets in brotherhood the race 
A new Olympic game. 

244 



The truce thai shielded foes lu Greece, 

Is in our time the same. 

Xo chish is here of warhke hosts, 

Xo coiirtict right with might : 

The hivv of love is paramount, — 

The law of love is right. 

Sweet Peace brings here her matchless train, 

The triumphs she has won 

Along the line of happiness 

Since first the race begun. 

Here she displays her trophies proud, 

As step by step she gained 

From lowest depths of primal man 

To what he's now attained. 

Exhibits fruits by skill produced, 

Excelling normal state, 

The forces found in hidden springs, 

That on mankind await ; 

The science that has firmly marched 

Along the iron bars 

Till thought is voiced in hemispheres. 

And earth communes with stars. 

The commerce that rude paddles dropped 

And sails for aye has furled 

In smoke of ocean greyhound marks 

Its course around the world. 

Here art has kindly brought to us 

Fair scenes and landscapes grand. 

24.-) 



And shows in this world's galaxy 

A glimpse of every land. 

No hate, no malice here is found, 

But all the world unites 

To show the trophies of the brain, 

And matchless skill invites. 

No test of strength to mar the form. 

No strife to scar and wound. 

No gladiatorial combats here, 

No tournaments are found; 

But by the pleasant paths of peace 

The rivalry shall move. 

Its aim shall be to help the race. 

To weld the world in love. 

The weakest hamlet here may vie 

With wealthiest lands of earth, 

Assured the crown of victory 

Will o^race the brow of worth. 



246 



MORNING AND EVENING GUN AT SAN 
DIEGO BAY, CALIFORNIA. 

I heard a gun at rise of sun on San Diego bay. 
'Twas Uncle Sam's all hail salute to the Admiral of Day, 
While all along the drowsy east the squadron bore in line 
With spars and masts in colors' rich as old Oporto wine. 
And high above both sail and smoke bright pennants gaily 

flew, 
But to the Admiral were dipped as he went sailing through. 

I saw o'er Ysidora's hills where camped the stars of night 

The flagship of the Admiral just heaving into sight. 

His consorts caught his brilliant rays, then silently with- 

drew% 
But upward sailed the Admiral upon his grand review. 
Already had he swept the sea beyond our farthest bound, 
And gazed with eyes of tenderness on states with snow- 
drifts crowned. 

He saw the frozen river chained from source unto its mouth. 
The crystal locks immovable on lakes both north and south. 
He sailed across the continent and sent his signals down; 
He lit the fires in cottages and roused its sleeping town. 
The masses moved to daily toil and crime awhile was stayed. 
Xew hope cheered up the invalid who saw his flag displayed. 

I heard a gun at set of sun on San Diego bay. 

Twas Uncle Sam's farewell salute to the Admiral of Day. 

Above the broad Pacific's wave a squadron sailed from view, 



And drooping rainbows lit their spars with ever changing 

hue, 
With rainbows of the Golden State, with sun entangled 

showers 
They strewed the course of the Admiral as hero's path witli 

flowers. 

San Diego, Jany. 20, 1893. . 



CYCLORAMA OF THE CHICAGO FIRE SEEN 
ON CHICAGO DAY, OCTOBER 9, 1893 

My brave, dear friend of early days. 
Young city of my constant joy, 
Whom I have watched with proud amazt 
Since you were Town and I was boy ; 
How marvelous has been thy stride. 
Without a parallel thy growth. 
On river bank and prairie wide, 
How marked the changes in us both. 

I ever loved you like a friend, 
A cherished comrade of my heart ; 
I never dreamed that love would end 
When I was man and you were mart. 
But rather it and pride would grow 
As years would add but strength to thee, 
Though certain they would filch the glow 
That youth w^as pleased to place on me. 

248 



I little dreainccl that i should see 
This carnival of death and flame; 
That 1 would have thee snatched from me 
And, in thy ashes, write my name. 
This little thought, as I saw rise 
Palatial 1)uil(lings, homes suhlimc. 
Saw men of wealth and enterprise 
Come pouring in from every clime, 

Saw churches line long avenues 
Where I had tramped with dog and gun. 
Saw steamers ride, where in canoes 
I'd seen the hraves swift races run, 
Saw crystal creek, whose perch and bass 
Oft' struggled on my baited hook 
Become so foul that we, alas. 
Would cross it with averted look. 

Saw all these changes come, and find 
Such marvels that they almost seem 
The tale of some distorted mind. 
The senseless image of a dream. 
Yet changes stranger were in store 
For stream and town, for wood and lea 
Than we had ever seen before 
Since Fort and Port gave birth to thee. 

There dared no horoscope to show 
What I have seen, in direful grief,— 
Thy empty hands upraised in woe, 

249 



In mute appeal for swift relief. 
I see the flame from wooden shed 
Fast hck with fiery tongue its path, 
Its flaming banner overhead, 
Portentious of the demon's wrath. 

I hear, mid crackHng flames, the cry 
Of terror stricken people, pale ; 
See burning brands in lurid sky 
Borne high and far on flaming gale 
As hurled from some volcanic pile, 
And hissing, roaring, drop below, 
Intensifying mile on mile 
The seething caldron, all aglow. 

Wild, frantic horses loosed from stalls, 
Rush frenzied in the flames again : 
The air is filled with anguished calls 
Of children, women, frightened men, 
All struggling under heavy loads 
Of what they each may highest prize. 
Piled wagons tear along the roads 
Where urging whip hot flame supplies. 

Hemmed in by l)linding smoke and heat 
Surge aimlessly the motley mass. 
And gladly follow any street 
Through which in safety they can pass. 
The young and old each other cheer, 
Endurance urging to its length, 

2r)0 



And tender arms bear those held dear 
That never guessed before their strength. 

And oft a strong ^neas saved 
A Priam from our burning Troy. 
No l)ard to note the perils braved. 
Their names to praise no pens employ. 
The flames expire; the embers die. 
In ashes hot. mad demons laugh. 
Black clouds of smoke obscure the sky, 
A mournin:"- veil and cenotaph. 

The night wears on ; the morning breaks. 

Our hopeless ruin is complete. 

Yet, ere the dawn, man's love awakes, — 

His untold wealth is at our feet. 

Our prayer for daily bread they heard 

Who never knew our tongue before. 

By deed 'tis answered, not by word. 

And. with tlicir hearts their gifts they pour 

From lands beyond the farthest seas 
Come flowing tides of noble men, 
Amid our ashes bend their knees 
And raise for us our homes again. 
I close my eyes on this changed scene. 
On earlier days in heart commune. 
I see the boundless prairie green 
Aglow with Flora's brightest bloom. 



I see the line of shaded grove, 
The ash and oak in varied hue ; 
I see onr town towards them move 
When all the world seemed fresh and new. 
I see the great vicissitude, 
I see the change from sod to street. 
And see from ashes where she stood 
My loved Chicago stand complete. 



THE FOUR CENTURIES' FLOWER 

After the close of the Columbian Exposition there was a 
great desire to have the larger buildings permanently re- 
main, but the perishable nature of the material employed in 
their construction seemed to preclude that, which caused ma 
to write this poem. 

Have you ever turned vandal dissecting the flowers, — 

Those whispers of God to these senses of ours — - 

Some blossom of beauty or delicate spray 

That opens with sunrise and dies with the day? 

And as you its marvelous beauties unfurled, 

With a microscope gazed in the tiny new w^orld. 

And saw it alive with its midgets of grace 

Whose heaven and home was this exquisite place. 

Entranced were you not at His wonderful care 

Who even for insects such homes would prepare? 

And so as we saw our four centuries' plant, 
With beauties supernal the w^orld to enchant, 



Like the iviatchless Minerva ])urst forth from the sod, 

Unrivalled in sjjlendor — fit hand work of God, 

We marveled to think that this troi)ical flower 

Should hloom in our midst, tho" to live Init an hour. 

But how to delight the great marvel was wed 

When we studied the hlossom that for us was spread. 

No diminutive insects in ])ollen were lost, 

Xo glass did we need to reveal u;; the host 

On the calyxes stamped, in their texture inworn. 

For the giants of earth again with it were born. 

Here are leaders in science — there masters of song. 
Famed heroes and statesmen, the righters of wrong, 
While sculptors and painters, outliving the night 
Turn their backs to the ages, their faces to light. 
How articulate too are the petals bright dyes 
As they throw^ to the w^ind every flag 'neath the skies. 
And, what by no florist was dreamed of before, 
From its pistils grand fountains their crystal drops pour. 

What is it that glows like the gem of a king 

When the stars are encamped and the light taken wing? 

A dew drop, pray, think you, congealed in the cold? 

Aye ! a dew drop indeed, but a dew drop in gold. 

Another, another, a deluge of light 

In dew drops electric bursts forth on our sight 

Till corona, rich jeweled, full crowned, is supreme, 

A vision ecstatic, a crystalized dream. 

Oh ! wonderful plant to so soon pass away . 
Rut cannot we save thee from utter decay / 

253 



Thy glory iindimmed would we have thee retain, 

Thy blossoms full blown, everlasting remain. 

No lingering death could we brook for thy bloom, 

No ruins for beauty, no tears for thy tomb. 

No frost should now mar thee, but plucked in thy i^rime 

We will press thee intact in the Album of Time. 

Oct. 23, 1893. 



THE TWO ANGELS 

Two angels in a graveyard met as waned the sunset hour. 

One seemed by many winters bent, and one in prime of 
power. 

One fleshless on a pale horse sat, one praised the flowers new 

Upon a grave, whence mourning friends had recently with- 
drew. 

"Thus brother" — low the sower spoke — "our tasks are never 
done. 

I sow the seeds, you harvests reap, our work goes ever on. 

Men call me Life, — they call you Death; bestow their praise 
on me 

While with upbraiding and with tears they ever think of thee. 

Pull off the mask you always wear, your glinting scythe cast 
down. 

And I will take my false face off by which by man I'm 
known." 

They threw their masks of calling oft'; they stood there side 
by side, 

254 



Life shone in all his loveliness and Death aloof from pride. 

They stood beside that fresh made grave in sunset's shadows 
cold; 

Two twins were never more alike in graces manifold. 

Then Life resumed, — "Why should mankind to us such differ- 
ence show, 

Wild terror feel at your approach, such love on me bestow? 

No one can now 1)etwcen us choose, we both same likeness 
bear. 

Men flee or fawn at outward signs; they judge by garbs we 
wear. 

Let us awhile exchange our masks, our tasks renewing then. 

And mark who gains the love or hate of all the tribes of men. 

A year from now we'll meet again beside this hallowed 
mound, 

As shades of night creep through the vale we both will here 
be found 

And see if men do hate or love for what ourselves we are 

Or reason find for doing so from symbols we may bear." 

1 .ife took the skeleton of Death, while Death assumed Life's 
mask. 

And each betook him as before to his accustomed task. 

As Life walked forth among mankind, but in his brother's 
guise, 

Where he before had met with smiles were now averted eyes. 

While Death assuming life's bright face most gladly was re- 
ceived. 

Thus Death was courted. Life was shunned. Their mask^ 
mankind deceived. 

255 



They met again as was proposed, beside the flowered mound. 

A finely chiseled monument adorned the sacred ground. 

The face evinced a master's hand ; expressed a love serene, 

And showed that matchless countenance that in our Christ 
was seen. 

Death grasped his brother's hand and said, " 'Tis well we 
meet again. 

I cannot bear this base disguise, this playing false with men. 

They think that they behold in me my brother, and their 
friend. 

\\"ith smiles they run to welcome me, their hands in joy ex- 
tend. 

I. cannot masquerade as friend, they've always thought their 
foe. 

Return my true belongings all, that seeing me they'll know. ' 

But Life rejoining answer made: "Dear brother, is it true 
That I am really such a friend to credulous man as you? 
Should man court life with all the griefs that from existence 

flow, 
Bless me who makes it possible for him to sorrows know? 
No disappointment, crime or want, no tears the eyes bedim 
Till I as Life conceive them all and incarnate in him. 
There's scarce an object of his love his heart is bound up in 
But what some pang accompanies, from want, disease or sin. 
There's not a step that he may take from being's dawn to 

close 
But is beset by perils great, from seen or hidden foes. 
And if 'tis true, as true it is, in spite of every ill 
Man clings to life e'en when its path his broken idols fill, 

2.^6 



Should not as friend he higher rank who rest and comfort 

gives, 
From all these ills that man beset through every day he 

lives? 

Men do not realize as they should, that you are friend, not 

foe. 
There's not a cross that he may bear but you can crown be- 
stow. 
There's not a pain a child may feel a mother would assuage, 
A grief that comes to middle life, a sorrow to old age, 
No suffering, defying skill of mortal to relieve. 
But you can fold them in your arms, and perfect comfort 

give. 
If men as angels think of those who spend their days and 

years 
Relieving pain in every form, with smiles supplanting tears. 
Why should they not be reconciled, acknowledge what is best. 
Bless you for soothing troubled ones, and giving all men 

rest? 

And so, my brother, it is true that you, not I, should be 
The welcome guest to every one with life's infirmity. 
Whoever went with you has found the truth which all will 

know, 
That Life is but the seed of Death, is Death in embryo. 
While Death is Life's transition state, no Life can truly be 
Till Life through Death is brought to Life in immortality. 
Then you retain that garb of mine, and yours on me bestow, 

257 



That Death as Life will men greet me, and Life in you shall 

know." 
Death donned Life's beaming countenance. Life on the pale 

horse flew, 
And since that time they both have been disguised their 

tasks to do. 

Deep shadows in the valley crept, a dampness touched the 

air. 
The setting sun in crimson dyed the clouds on mountain 

bare. 
And halo cast around the head of loving Nazarene, 
Who Death in Life, and Life in Death, for all mankind has 

seen. 
Pasadena, Cal., October 14, 1895. 



"AUNTY, I STUMP YOU TO RUN ME 
A RACE" 

To Mrs. N. G. R., who ran, then encouraged him 
by granting "a little the start." 

Her pet was a four-year-old "chubby." 
A type of those wideawake boys, 
Who answer at meal-call to "bubby" 
(When shouted above their own noise). 
His cheeks were as red as June roses, 
As round as his tattered-brim hat: 
(Who knowing a boy but supposes 
He liked it the better for that) ? 




He "yelled" to his "Auntie" one morning 
"I stump you to run me a race". 



Mo bluebells mute tinkling at even 
In thanks giving praise to the skies, 
So near caught the azure of heaven 
As "Bub's" little roguish blue eyes. 
Such love had the sunbeams for weaving 
Their gold in his beautiful hair, 
Girls thought that they always were leaving 
Fair traces at least of it there. 

He "yelled'- to his "Aunty" one morning, 
"I stump you to run me a race," 
Night's jewels the lawn were adorning, 
Their sisters were bathing his face 
As toddled he after his "Netta" 
Away to a great chestnut tree, 
Where grieved and defeated he met her, 
Instead of with usual glee. 

Four times was he sadly defeated, 
Four times his aunt left him behind; 
Then coming to where she was seated, 
Thus "Bubby" unburdened his mind. 
"Aunt Netta, I'll bet I can beat yer 
Just give me a little the start." 
She kissed the disconsolate creature: 
He won the fond wish of his heart. 

Thus men are we constantly meeting 
Depressed with the burdens of life. 
The Fates all their efforts defeating, 

2r)9 



They yield and relinquish the strife. 
Yet love can encourage persistence, 
Can cheer the dispirited heart, 
Lead on to a brighter existence 
By giving "a little the start." 

September i6, 1888. 



"GOD, BLESS YOU, SIR." 

I know an old druggist, well liked "by the trade," 

By every one else, it might also be said — 

For though he will drink, and will swear, I must own. 

His heart is so true that his faults we condone. 

When once I was chatting with him in his store, 

A feeble old dame tottered into the door, 

With a crumpled prescription — though carried with care- 

Which she gave to our druggist for him to prepare. 

My kind German friend, with a smile on his face 
To a chair bowed the dame with a Chesterfield grace, 
And when her prescription was ready, inquired: 
"How far do you live, you appear very tired?" 
"A mile and a half," the old lady replied. 
"Too much of a walk, here's a dime for a ride. 
Whatever you want," he remarked, "come to me, 
I gladly will furnish and furnish it free." 

And when he again settled down in his chair, 
I grasped his two hands, and I didn't much care 

260 




"Aunt Netta, I'll bet I can beat yer, 
Just give Hie a little the start." 



If true as they said^ his impetuous heart 
Outstripping his mind, got sometimes the start 
And out of his mouth not infrequently slipped 
Unsanctified words from his unguarded lips. 
I told him I thought he must feel a just pride, 
In such kindly actions, to which he replied: 
"I'm not any better than most, I confess, 
But I give to the poor and relieve what distress 
May come in my way — a rule long ago made — 
And gladly contribute to those needing aid 
Not alone what the doctors see fit to suggest, 
But money and other things I may think best. 
Like her I hear many with gratitude say, 
With low, trembling voice, slowly moving away : 
'God bless you^ dear sir, I pray long may you live. 
May God give to you, who so cheerfully give.' 

"My tears often start, which I cannot suppress; 

So heartfelt the tones which their feelings express, 

And I've frequently thought as these scenes have occurred, 

That the prayers of the poor by our Father are heard. 

I cannot tell how it with others may be. 

But the blessings they ask descend surely to me. 

When taking some trifle my heart warmly gives, 

I certainly get more than he who receives." 

If who gives to the poor, only lends to the Lord, 
The giver, in giving receives the reward. 
Who aids but to bless, not for human applause. 
Always blesses himself, though unnoticed the cause, 

261 



God heareth the poor, and He answers their call: 
The blessings invoked on deserving heads fall. 
Yes, the prayers of the poor are not offered in vain, 
While what we give freely is all we retain. 

July 8, 1883. 



THE ORIGIN OF THE VIOLIN 

Dedicated to Miss Daisy Polk. 

Beneath a spreading maple tree 

Beside the Tieino, 

Which links the lake Maggiore 

With stately flowing Po, 

The young and old of Lombardy 

Were wont in varied mood 

To join in pastimes innocent; 

Save when, in robe and hood, 

The priest would bring his peasant flock 

Unto its hallowed shrine 

To render praise, or in distress 

To plead for aid Divine. 

The young in sports one day had spent, 

The aged looking on. 

When shadows lengthened in the grove. 

Proclaiming day most gone, 

A sudden storm swept down the lake. 

Dark clouds the sky o'ercast, 

262 




(iaspaido's were no vandal hands, 
\\\ priest absolved from sin — 



And frightened peasants 'neath the tree 

Sought shcher from the blast. 

But Jove his Hghtnings hurled to earth, 

The monarch prostrate crushed. 

The groans of helpless sufferers, 

By Death released, were hushed. 

In every home this woe was felt 

Through all the region round; 

Grief stilled each voice, save when lament 

Gave utterance to sound. 

The dead were tenderly interred; 

The maimed received such care 

As loving hands w^ith skill bestow 

When age the balms prepare. 

The heart of one especially 

Was prostrated by woe : — 

Moaned day and night beside the tree, 

Gaspardo di Salo. 

Bowed down with grief, he from the tree 

Took note of sighing wind. 

And thought at times he voices caught 

The loved had left behind. 

With prayer and penitence he hoped 

In some way he might be 

Interpreter of those strange sounds 

Proceeding from the tree. 

His prayers were heard. His months of toil 

With holy impulse fired 

263 



Brought unto him from realms above 

What he had long desired: 

He felt an inspiration sweet 

By priest absolved from sin 

His soul assumed harmonic form 

In that first violin. 



The maple curved at his deft touch. 

Each part was fashioned true. 

The spirits of the tree stepped forth 

And in the viol flew. 

The dryad of the maple left 

Her desolated throne, 

And filled the new formed instrument 

With tones before unknown. 

Gaspardo pressed it to his breast 

And all enraptured heard, 

As fluttering within his heart, 

The songs of captive bird. 

Amazed, upon his knees he sank, 

Gave thanks with joyous tears, 

And in those spirits of the tree 

Found friends of early years. 

He called the shades of his loved dead 

Who 'neath the tree had played. 

The dear companions of his youth 

Who with him later prayed. 

They came as he entranced performed, 

They filled his violin, 

264 



And every chord his soul awoke, 
Responses found within. 

And as I sit in twilight hour 

And list to thee, young friend, 

Gaspardo's mantle do I see 

Upon thy form descend. 

I see that far-off maple tree; 

The sweets which through it poured 

Are symbolized in those sweet notes 

So blent in every chord. 

I hear the birds that he heard sing, 

The merry childhood plays, 

I hear the hymns of villagers 

Attuned in holy praise. 

I hear that far-off sighing wind 

Which rocks the roof of gold ; 

I hear the voice of earnest priest, 

Petition for his fold. 

I see the lightning, hear the storm 

Come sweeping o'er the wave; 

The crash ! the groans of little ones 

No mother's love can save : 

And as these sink into my soul 

I feel when e'er you play 

More spirits bide at your command 

Than float for you away. 

I feel that hidden in that frame 
Are birds and songs I've known, 



And as you in the twilight play 

I know they have not flown, 

But only wait for your rare touch 

To show they still are near. 

And if I but your gift possessed 

I them, as you, could hear ; 

Could catch their thrills of harmony 

In each sweet minor strain; 

With closed eyes both see and hear 

Those birds and songs again. 

Pasadena, November 30, 1896. 



WHAT IS THE "W^HITE MAN'S BURDEN 

What is the white man's burden f 
What has it ever been 
But wars of cruel conquest, 
Of slavery and sin ? 
When was it borne as duty 
For others' good alone? 
Aggrandizement not seeking, 
Nor aiding venal throne ? 
When through the march of age.? 
Have whitemen ever made 
The welfare of a people 
Above the thrift of trade? 

What was the white man's burden f 
In that black continent 

26() 



When in the horrid slave trade 
His cursed years were spent? 
Had he a single impulse 
Except to coin in gold 
The hell tormented negroes 
He tortured in his hold? 
And what to-day the BURDEN, 
(Their slave trade cast aside?) 
But stealing land and owners 
To wolfishly divide? 

What was the white man's BURDEN 

Four centuries ago 

When Spain with cross and cutlass 

Invaded Mexico 

And crushed with armored fists 

The Incas of Peru, — 

Its inoffensive people 

In countless numhers slew? 

The crimes of her intruders 

Cannot in words be told. 

The BURDEN then as now was 

The lustful toil for gold. 

And what has been his BURDEN 

As he has sailed the seas 

And claimed each new found island 

By his discoveries? 

His flag he's raised above them 

And held them as his own. 



The tribes had no election, 

Were vassals to his throne. 

The white man oft found BURDENS 

When men maintained their right; 

His BURDEN then was slaughter. 

He crushed them with his might. 

What was the white man's BURDEN 

In far-off Hindoostan? 

Did woes of Hindoo widows 

Appeal to heart of man? 

Think you his inspiration 

At any time was more 

Than that his glutted markets, 

Might find "an open door"? 

What is the white man's BURDEN 
As England forcing fills 
All China with her opium 
Which yearly thousands kills? 
While Russia builds her railroads, 
All lands to follow suit, 
That peaceful, timid people 
Dare not their course dispute? 
How BURDENSOME that Empire 
Which foreign states divide. 
In towns encamp their armies. 
Their navies guard outside. 

What were the heavy BURDENS 
Which our forefathers BORE 

268 



When safely from the Mayflower 
They reached the rocky shore 
The red man was possessed of, 
Yet willing was to share? 
He proffered maize and venison, 
All giving he could spare. 
To benefit the red men 
Did our forefathers toil? 
And did they treat them justly, 
Full paying for their soil? 

And are we likewise BEARING 

The white man's BURDEN too? 

That normal, selfish burden, 

Or shall we nobler do? 

A higher aim pursuing, 

Determined now are we 

To make the Filipinos 

And sons of Cuba free? 

By Right and Duty's diction, 

Ring in the order new, 

Do by these struggling peoples 

As honor bids us do? 

June 15, 1899. 



TO MISS KATE B. 

Dear Kate, 

I heard a youth relate, 

(I hope he'd -not prevaricate) 

Of your coming changed estate. 

I cannot wait, 

(No times these to procrastinate) 

But hasten to congratulate 

Before it is too late, 

I know not what to state, 

But hope your wedded fate 

May all your life elate; 

With joys it may create 

Of flowing cup and plate, 

Of things that make us great 

In heart, which more than compensate 

For purses lacking weight. 

For, mark my word?, dear Kate^, 

We wealth have in our mate, 

IF WE IN THEM CREATE 

A love, and estimate 

That love, as youth is apt to rate 

That precious boon, I hate 

To see that love abate. 

A plant so delicate 

Needs care commensurate. 

We're apt to relegate 

Our smiles, that on our youth await 

And words that are immaculate, 

270 



And kisses that so consecrate, 

To the blissful past. Ingrate 

Become with years, and irritate 

With unkind words, and small debate 

On things of no account, and obdurate 

Grow to be, and obstinate. 

As if we would eradicate 

All that seems affectionate, 

Aye, each sign of gentleness obliterate 

Every semblance of our love. Inculcate 

This, would I, dear Kate, 

Grow together, not apart, straight. 

Grow in each other's estimate. 

My wife you imitate. 

Like her become the greatest of the great 

For husbands true to adorate. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CALIFORNIA 
POPPY 

(Eschscholtzia Californica) 

The language of this flower is Light, Love 
and Charity. 

A sweet, pathetic story 

The natives told, before 

The bloody, bronzed freebooters 

Laid desolate this shore, 

'Twas in creation's morning, 

For so the legends run, 

271 



Before the stars were fashioned, 

No light but moon and sun. 

The people's ways were simple; 

The wants of man were few; 

The valleys all were fertile, 

And fruits abundant grew; 

His flocks upon the hillsides 

Could furnish him with meats; 

While bees patrolled the mountains, 

In culling dainty sweets. 

The birds with sweetest roundels 

Returned each other's call. 

Pure gold and silver vessels 

Were used by people all. 

Unmarred by earth's ambitions, 

Or wars, or bloody strife, 

But crowned with every comfort 

Was every human life. 

'Twas in this bright beginning, 

With every man a friend, 

That people chose their wisest 

To public cares attend. 

To settle any question 

That might at times arise, 

A man of sterling judgment, 

As affable, as wise. 

He walked among them daily. 

Their wishes understood : 

Spoke unto them most kindly. 

Advised them for their good. 

272 



They loved to call him father, 

As such tor them his care. 

He joined in their rejoicings, 

Their sorrows did he share ; 

Conversed with them on subjects 

Affecting woe or weal. 

His life, a round of duty 

Performed with lofty zeal. 

For ages this their custom. 

No other rule they knew. 

Authority he had none, 

But what he wished, they'd do. 

At length the loved Luwannah, 

Eclipsing regal name. 

The father of the people 

In course of time l)ecame. 

No one among the fathers 

By them had be?n loved more. 

No leader had been kinder, 

Nor gained such fame before. 

Nor had one such a daughter. 

The people called her queen. 

With countenance more radiant 

Than man had ever seen, 

Her deeds eclipsed her beauty, 

(Which seemed to her unknown) 

In the hearts of all her people 

Immutable her throne. 

Unto the mothers weary 

She brought her skill, to rest : 

273 



No trouble of her people 
She bore not in her breast. 

But a curse came down upon them, 

A curse in human guise. 

A monster bird came flying 

Between the waves and skies. 

It settled on the water 

Within a sheltered bay; 

Was chained there to the bottom, 

Lest it might get away. 

Then men in goodly numbers 

Came from it to the shore. 

Long beards enwTapped their faces. 

Unseen so light before. 

Their eyes, beneath their visors. 

Blue glistened, bright as when 

Some sky reflecting lakelet 

Gleams forth from mountain glen. 

At once they journeyed inward. 
For miles marched overland, 
And parleyed with the people, 
Who could not understand. 
There, gazed with eyes of longing 
On gold they saw exposed ; 
Yet gave no outward token 
Of the treachery proposed. 
But under guise of friendship 
Luwannah lured awav. 



He with his lovely daughter 
Went with them to the bay^ 
Unto the bay and monster 
That fretted at its chain. 
Though shy those simple people, 
As Olaf left the main, 
So gentle were the strangers 
They put to rest their fears; 
And trusted them implicitly 
As friends for many years. 

To that strange bird they journeyed, 
But scarce had reached the snare 
When Olaf drew his cutlass, 
And seized on Cuitah fair. 
His men sprang at Luwannah, 
And both securely chained. 
Demanding, as a ransom, 
What gold the land contained; 
By signs expressed their purpose, 
And then released the few 
Who fell into the meshes 
Of Olaf and his crew. 

The poor deluded people 

Soon brought unto the shore, 

To Olaf, untold treasure; 

But he demanded more. 

He seized the gold they proffered, 

Then to Luwannah turned 

275 



And loosed him from his fetters. 
But he his freedom spurned 
Unless his cherished daughter, 
The idol of his heart. 
Might from their cursed presence 
With him in peace depart. 

But Olaf knew the father, 
How much he did adore 
The lovely girl before him. 
And motioned him to shore — 
Unto Luwannah gestured, 
That he himself must go, 
And gather greater treasures. 
Ere freedom he'd bestow. 

In agony unbounded 

The father kissed the cheek 

Of Cuitah ; as they parted 

Unable was to speak. 

Then hastened with his people, 

All anxious to obtain 

For Olaf and his comrades 

The gold that might remain. 

But wind swept were the waters, 
And, in the gloom of night. 
The monster broke his shackles 
And disappeared in flight. 
For many moons kept flying. 



Then on a mountaMi lit : 
Above were walls of Paradise, 
Beneath it yawned a pit. 

A God-like man approached them 
Not cast in mortal mould ; 
He stroked the bird in kindness, 
Beheld the heaps of gold. 
He then said unto Olaf, 
"What bring you to this place? 
Think you with gold to purchase 
The Father's boundless grace?" 

Then Olaf trembling answered, 
With voice surcharged with fea>, 
"I hoped full time for pardon 
Ere I should be brought here: 
For death man's sins unfit him ; 
F'm not prepared to die; 
But Life's mysterious ruler 
Has sent me thus on high. 
I humbly crave for mercy, 
Forgiveness I implore : 
Or, if you will not grant it, 
My former state restore. 
A life henceforth Til lead. 
So circumspect 'twill be 
That when its record reading 
You'll read approvingly." 

277 



"Too late, too late," Menunah spoke, 

*'Vile wretch, do you surmise 

A life of vice can fit a man 

For mansions in the skies ? 

Can man cheat God ? or thwart His plans 

Who rules in all affairs? 

Can he defy His holy law, 

Atone for crimes by prayers? 

Can he escape his just deserts, 

(Live vilely year by year), 

By mumbling words of penitence 

As Death he sees draw near? 

"Alas ! the wiles of sin ! 

And you I tried before. 

You broke the promise given me; 

I will not trust you more. 

You seemed so truly penitent 

And said unto me then 

H I would but your life restore 

You'd be the best of men. 

I gave you back your life again ; 

But with it, warning gave 

It hence must be exemplary 

If you your soul would save. 

"For knowing well how tempted men 
Are prone to go astray, 
How few there are but would prefer 
To walk the narrow way, 

278 



(Since unexplained environments 

Around each soul are thrown, 

For aiding some to better life, 

And some to good disown), 

How many things for which most men 

Are irresponsible, 

Inthrall them all, and issue make 

Of final good or ill, 

I gladly give those wishing to, 

A chance on earth again ; 

With words of love restoring them 

Unto their fellow men. 

"Do they return with less of sin. 

And more of lofty will. 

Have effort made to nobly live, 

Though they be sinful still 

I then the wish of each respect, 

And what they would, let do; 

This higher school to enter in, 

Or earthly life renew. 

"But when they come as you have come. 

In vice more steeped, than when 

I permit gave again to live 

Among their fellow men, 

I cannot curse the world with them, 

'Twould cruel be in me 

To send such monsters back to earth 

To breed iniquity. 

279 



"These piles of gold prove your base heart, 

They drag your soul below 

Into this mountain's charnel caves 

Will you be forced to go, 

Till years of mental anguish kill 

Life's crop of sinful weeds, 

And you with true repentance show 

A harvest of good deeds. 

When works and holy living prove 

Your triumph over sin. 

And you by it well fitted are 

To this true life begin, 

Come robed in lowly meekness here. 

Your prayers, no more denied. 

The pearly gates of Paradise 

To you will open wide." 

He spake then to the maiden, 
Who trembling waited still ; 
"Take thou this golden treasure, 
Do with it what you will. 
For your sweet sake I bless it. 
What with it you may do, 
It will, through all the ages, 
Memento be of you." 

The timid Cuitah answ^ered : 
"For this I have no need. 
It cursed me and my nation, 
Incited Olaf's greed. 

280 



1 loathe the tempting metal 
For crimes it doth provoke. 
Restore me to my kindred. 
Thy aid do I invoke. 
My father, broken hearted, 
Does for his daughter yearn ; 
My simple-minded people 
Await for my return. 
1 hope it is not wicked 
To wish to get away; 
I hope I may be pardoned, 
If so 'tis wrong to pray, 
But there I may be useful, 
Here naught have I to do. 
Let me restore their gladness, 
My humble tasks renew." 



Menunah kindly answe»-ed, 

"My daughter; it is true 

The loved on earth arc waiting 

In agony for you; 

But the good who come among us 

Do not as self go back, 

Vet the SPIRIT of their sweetness 

The world doth so much lack. 

Assuming love's disguises, 

Is left by them behind, 

In time to mould the nations. 

Redeeming all mankind. 



281 



"Your simple, gentle people, 

Above most others rise 

In lives of sweet contentment, 

And all that word implies : 

No wonder you may question 

If it would better be 

To leave your mourning people 

So sadly needing thee. 

But mortal life is transient. 

No matter how men prize 

Their friends and loved surroundings 

And dread the sundered ties, 

The growth of soul is upward, 

Whatever its first cast. 

And be it slow or rapid, 

It must reach here at last. 

And those who, like my daughter. 

Made heaven of earth below. 

Make loved ones left behind them 

More reconciled to go ; 

As one by one the tendrils, 

Of earth, that held them dear. 

Are by the Father loosened, 

To closer twine them here. 

"Therefore, my gentle Cuitah; 
Thy SPIRIT will I send 
Unto thine anguished father. 
Unto each mourning friend. 
The spirit of forgiveness, 

282 



Of charity and love, 

Of holy ministrations 

In every place they move. 

Not only to thy people 

Thy spirit will be sent, 

To crown their hopes of future life, 

Their present with content; 

But future sisters of the race, 

In emulating thee 

Will bless the world by usefulness 

And broadest charity. 

"Since as a queen they thought of thee, 

Though crowned alone by love, 

Though ruling only in their hearts, 

So shalt thou rule above. 

Thy throne shall be a lowly one, 

As may be thy desire. 

But, from it, thou shalt rule all hearts 

That goodness may inspire. 

Neath various banners will they come. 

Or, struggling on alone, 

Thy sisters shall thy helpers be 

In every age and zone. 

Wherever want and woe may dwell. 

Wherever crime be found, 

Thy hand maids will like angels come, 

Their charity abound. 

Not only will they hungry feed, 

The sick to health restore. 



Dissuade from crime, persuading men 

To go and sin no more; 

Nor meet life's wants with gold alone, 

(The rich in heart crave none), 

But give to them their lives of love, 

Until all hearts are won. 

"This gold may either curse or bless. 

As hoarded is or given, 

We have no use for it, at least 

It has no place in heaven." 

She took the gold he pointed at, 

She flung it far and wide; 

It struck upon the mountain bare. 

It crushed into the side. 

Remorse it felt for wrong it caused, 

And hid itself aw^ay; 

But Charity sought out the spot 

Wherein it, hidden, lay 

With golden cloth of poppies spread 

Its mantle broad to screen. 

Where sinned against, not sinner, it 

Should never more be seen. 

And where the gold in downward flight 
Its way tore through the blue. 
We nightly see the rents it made 
Midst stars the light pours through. 
The gem-strewn stairs of Milky-way, 
So little understood. 



Is path by loving feet worn thin 

Of that vast sisterhood, 

Whose gentle lives, from earth to sky 

And sky to earth, are spent 

In deeds of love and charity, 

By faithful Cuitah sent. 

Pasadena, Cal., November 3, 1895. 



THE LEGEND OF THE WATER LILIES. 

The language of die yellow pond lily is Falsehood; of 
the white pond lily, Purity-Innocence. 

In the land of the warlike Ojibwa, 

In the land of glen, forest and grove. 
In the land where the lake and the river 

Answer signals of star-worlds above. 
Where each tint of the rainbow is blended 

In the couch of the cloud-curtained sun, 
And the glories of heaven suspended 

Beam on rivers where silver is run, 
A small lake midst the hills is protected, 

Lulled to sleep by the pine forests' hymn, 
On whose surface is clearly reflected 

Dainty ferns that embroider its brim. 
High above it, the fickle wind tosses 

Fragrant branches of cedar and pine. 
Softly screening the velvety mosses. 

Favored spot for the deer to recline. 

285 



Here in pride brave Matawba long tarried, 

Bravest chief of the chieftains, whose name. 
With the v^arlike Ojibwa had carried 

To the far away ocean high fame. 
Gently fanned by the balsamic larches, 

Which intoned to the murmuring waves. 
Stood the wigwams and comely bark lodges 

Of the knightly old warrior and braves. 
Right across from their favorite quarter 

Curving woods from the opposite shore 
Threw an emerald wreath on the water, 

Well concealing its crystalline floor. 
Not a hunter dared pass through its portals. 

Or dared gaze on its hallowed retreat. 
Not a brave, though the boldest of mortals 

Dared to press it with moccasined feet. 
Here assembled the woods' dusky daughters. 

When oppressed by the heat of the day, 
Unobserved gaily splashed in its w^aters. 

Modern Naiads in innocent play. 

Fair Wau Bun,* brave Matawba's heart's treasure. 

Many summers had headed the troupe. 
Where, intent upon purest of pleasure 

They assembled, a sylphian group. 
But, alas, for her musical laughter: 

The sweet trill of its cadences fled 
As the hush of the lullabies, after 

The cradle-rocked darling is dead. 



♦Wau Bun signifies Dawn, early morn. 

286 




In the land ot the warlike Ojibwa. 
In the land of gjlen, forest and grove. 



There were shrines in our primal woods standing, 

Through the length and the breadth of our land ; 
That arose at the Father's commanding, 

Lofty temples where cities now stand. 
There the grapevines, their censers, were swinging, 

Their sweet incense perfuming the air, 
Feathered choirs His praises were singing, 

Bent the goldenrods lowly in prayer. 
There were priests most devoutedly kneeling 

In cathedrals God loveth to make, 
Raising voices with souls thrilled with feeling 

Unto Him for the savages' sake. 
But the masses stood leering and staring, 

With the braves scoffing pleadings and tears, 
Leaving those who for death were preparing 

To alone be persuaded by fears. 

Young La Clerc, daring woe and disaster. 

Toiled alone in this wild, sylvan land 
To establish the cross of his Master 

In the hearts and rude homes of the band. 
Ever saint-like in speech and behavior, 

Unaware, he himself at length won 
What he labored to gain for his Savior — 

The pure heart of the lovely Wau Bun. 
Every shadow upon her face, stealing 

Like the shades of the clouds on a lake, 
He interpreted grace, not the feeling 



287 



Of a hopeless despair for his sake. 
She most bravely concealed her deep trouble, 

The unquenchable love that she felt, 
While the priest did his efforts redouble 

As in worship, together they knelt. 
******* 

There are secrets no eye can discover 

Far beneath the blue waves of the sea, 
There are souls that defy man's endeavor 

To conceive what their secrets may be. 
There are tears 'neath the eyelids that tremble 

In their efforts some grief to conceal, 
There are hearts that, though breaking, dissemble 

Disappointments they inwardly feel, 
Brave indeed are the souls, while retaining 

In their breast an unspeakable woe, 

That betray on their lips no complaining. 

And no gloom in their sweet faces show. 
******* 

There were tints when the sun sank in passing 

Such as mortals may seldom behold; 
There were wreaths on his gorgeous couch massing, 

Blending amethyst, ruby and gold. 
Far above on the curtained sky lying 

Were the tokens of anguish and pain. 
Such as men have to face in their dying 

When through wounds their lives ebb on the plain. 
The long lances of sunset were glowing 

On the verge of the battle-dyed sKies, 
Like recumbent companions bestowing- 

288 



Solemn rites to a comrade who dies. 
On the lake's gentle swells were detected 

The twin picture of Mar's bloody field, 
But those dyes of the carnage reflected 

Soon the shadows of twilight concealed. 
Silence followed the birds' choral vesper, 

Save at intervals, breaking the hush 
The low chirp of an uneasy nestler 

Could be heard in the hazel, or rush : 
Or the great northern loon, loudly calling. 

And its echo from steep, wooded hill, 
Or the perch in its plashing and falling. 

Or the tyrant who sang "Whip poor Will."' 

Far aloft on the giant pines swinging, 

Lightly tipped by the sun's parting ray. 
Hazel cones set mute elfin bells ringing 

A salute at the close of the day. 
By the door of his lodge stood Matawba, 

Where the chief sadly gazed on his cliild, 
On the face of his beautiful daughter, 

Who looked up through her tears as she smiled- 
\\'cll he knew that his daughter was grieving. 

Though she feigned to the chief she was not. 
But engrossed, as she sat there, in weaving 

Fancy baskets of sweet melilot. 

Then he spoke to her lovingly, saying, 

"Why these tears in the eyes of \\"au Bun ? 

Bright the sky that should usher the day in. 
Dripping clouds suit the low setting sun. 



As the brooks filled with melted snow, flowing, 

Tell of ice in the pools whence they flow, 
So these beads on thy sad cheek are showing 

That thy heart is now freezing with woe. 
Why avoids she those friends so long sought for 

All alone to commune in the woods? 
Every sport once enjoyed she cares naught for. 

Nor the maids in their bright, happy moods. 

Will she never have done with her weeping? 

Who has stolen the song of my lark ? 
All the smiles of my daughter lie sleeping. 

Has my loved one turned owl, choosing dark? 
Does Wau Bun seek the pale face's learning? 

Cast aside the priest's totems and beads. 
She would happier be in their burning; 

To the cave of the wolf his trail leads. 
In your mother's your feet should be gliding. 

The young squaw of the hunter is good 
When his food she delights in providing, 

And to gather the corn and the wood. 
Unto me lend the heart of my daughter : 

Keneu* is impatient to claim her. 
Many moons has he anxiously sought her, 

The adored one of every Ojibwa." 

Through her tears she replied, 'T have given 
To my father my heart while I live: 



*Ke-ne-u— Chief Great War Eagle. 



290 



Then will Manitaii take it to heaven. 

It's Matawba's to keep, not to give. 
To please Him and my father I'm trying, 

Every wish of your heart I have done; 
Naught but this would I meet by denying. 

Ask aught else of thy loving Wau Bun." 

^'W'ith the braves is Matawba's will binding. 

My Wau Bun must not thwart his desire. 
Would our squaws make the braves do their grinding?' 

As he spoke his dark eyes flashed with fire. 
But the flame of his wrath swiftly vanished, 

And a love that was tempered by grief 
Marked the face from which anger was banished, 

While a tear, braving will of the chief 
Swept away the last semblance of feeling. 

As .he gazed on the maid by his side 
Did he see, as in vision appealing 

The true image of a long ago bride. 
Who to him wnih tribe rites was united 

And who lovingly always obeyed. 
Till the heart growing still that was plighted. 
On the scaffold of death she was laid. 

"The chief's sun," did he sigh, "is descending. 

His old eyes veiled with clouds. Creeping slow 
On the ground his thin shadow is bending. 

By his side may the deer safely go. 
In his presence the young fawns are playing. 

For the days of his hunting are run. 
When he. blind, in his wigwam is staying 
291 



Who will then furnish food for Wau Bun? 
I now hush for our fathers' low greeting. 

Which with ears to the ground I can hear. 
My old heart is prepared for that meeting 

In the hunting grounds thronging with deer. 

"Not an antelope, frightened, is fleeter 

Than the Eagle I wish as my son. 
Sweet as honey his tongue is, and sweeter 

When his love he is telling Wau Bun. 
He outwits the Miami, deceivers, 

Not a panther survives when he's nigh, 
He is wiser than oldest of beavers. 

Not an eagle with such a keen eye, 
Not a w^arrior his equal as bowman. 

Not the neck of a bronzed chieftain wears 
Such a cluster of scalps of the foemen, 

And of claws of the fierce grizzly bears. 
On Meechunk's would my scalp now be drying 

Had not hatchet of Eagle been fleet 
As the flint pointed arrow in flying. 

But he fell, and was scalped at my feet ! 
Would my dove let her old father perish 

Where Meechunk at Ocomowoc sleeps ? 
A\'au Bun should her father's friend cherish. 

She the heart of the War Eagle keeps." 

"Would my father have taken my mother 

Had his love for her ever been spurned, 
Had she given her heart to another 

292 



And his love had not freely returned? 
Would he have his young daughter false-hearted, 

Would he wish her poor heart to be broken 
When he far from his daughter is parted? 

Wau Bun has spoken^ Wau Bun has spoken.' 

With the dawn the next morn she retired 

To the charms of her sylvan retreat : 
Every animate thing seemed inspired, 

Never songs of the l)irds were so sweet: 
Mellow tones the high heavens were filling; 

Feathered angels with hearts full of love 
Unto mates on their nests sweetly trilling 

Met their songs in wild raptures above. 
But the eyes of War Eagle were gleaming 

As she stepped from her cloistered retreat 
All unrobed for the bath, little dreaming 

That a brave would a maiden there meet. 
That he, ancient tradition unheeding. 

Was then serpent-like eying his prey, 
Till she heard, with her angel heart bleeding, 

"Wau Bun dies, or my squaw is to-day." 
A\'ith a horror she turned, and beholding 

The Great War Eagle pacing the shore 
Clasped her hands and above her head folding. 

For God's aid she prayed Christ to implore. 
And when Hope stood assuring His blessing 

On her knees she sank under the tide 
Which, its screen smoothly over her pressing. 

Did the form of the chaste maiden hide. 

293 



When the War Eagle knew she'd departed 

He resolved accusation to make 
That La Clerc had destroyed the pure hearted, 

That he'd taken her life in the lake. 
To the canoe of the priest did he hasten, 

Which he wet, and when thoroughly done, 
To Matawba he hurried to fasten 

On La Clerc the sad death of V\^au Bun. 
When the tent of the chief he was nearing 

Gray Matawba emerged from his lodge. 
As with palsy, he shook upon hearing 

The Great War Eagle's terrible charge, — 
"The pale priest of Wau Bun is black hearted, 

With the fish is your daughter now sleeping, 
Eagle watched them with fear when they started, 

'Neath the larches was Keneu creeping 
When he saw without power to save 

That Wau Bun, with hands wringing, and weeping, 
By La Clerc was plunged under the wave. 

I marked well as she sank, there did hover. 
As the queen of the flowers in grief 

Dropped her tears — pure white blossoms — above her, 
With a beauty surpassing belief. 

Why so wet is the priest's paddle dripping 
And the sides of his birch bark canoe, 

Who pretends in his lodge he is sleeping 
As I bring the sad tidings to you?" 

The poor priest, from his slumbers awaking 
With the cry that the maiden was drowned : 

294 



In accord with the hearts that were aching, 
Made all haste till Matawba be found, 

And the charges so base ascertaining, 
That to him was the horrid deed laid, 

Scarce his reason the while was retaining 
So distracting the fate of the maid. 

When the chieftain aquiver accosted, 

"What is this that the pale face has done? 
He is false whom we always have trusted. 

In the lake have you put out the sun. 
By her eyes were her old father's lighted, 

The canoe and your paddle are wet, 
Not a wave on the lake can be sighted. 

You shall die, while my heart prompts the threat." 

The pale face of La Clerc became whitened ; 

*'0h ! my Father !" with hands raised he cried — 
"I do pray, be this poor man enlightened. 

Tell him, Christ, how his daughter has died. 
If I'm guilty, my God, do I pray Thee 

On my head, in Thy wrath, may descend 
From the heavens Thy lightnings to slay me, 

I to unburied lie, with no friend. 
If 'tis false, I beseech Thy bestowing 

Such a proof to these people in grief. 
That again their regard w4Il be showing 

That my innocence wins their belief." 

While the priest was in prayer interceding 
The dazed people were held in suspense. 



Naught they thought would result from his pleading, 

Nor believed they the brother's defense. 
But War Eagle was seized during praying 

With a tremor throughout his great form, 
Till at length was like forest trees swaying 

When disturbed by a violent storm: 
While the name of Wau Bun he was speaking 

The soft earth started near him to shake. 
Monster eagles above him were shrieking. 

Not a step could Great War Eagle take, 
For beneath was the boggy ground sinking. 

All in vain did he combat his doom 
As coarse grasses from which he was shrinking 

With tall rushes were building his tomb. 
Wildly fought he the waters ascending 

But wdth sulphury fumes they arose ; 
With an awe and a deep silence pending 

Did the tribe see them over him close. 
The bright sky became suddenly darkened. 

Every bird, every insect was dumb. 
To weird noises each strickened ear barkened. 

Every sense of the body seemed numb. 
As his breath, forming bubbles, ascended 

And all broke on that surface of slime 
Every soul who' the mystic rite tended 

Felt the brother was guileless of crime. 
From each bubble there burst forth a flower, 

A bright yellow displayed to the sun, 
With a "FALSEHOOD" revealed by some power 

In sharp letters of black on each one. 

296 



By the marvels the loved were distracted, 

With deep grief do they anxiously turn 
To know more of the horror enacted, 

Of Wau Bun — long their idol — to learn. 
On the lake their canoes are scarce swaying, 

Not a ripple low murmurs on shore. 
Noiseless paddles sad friends are conveying 

Through the inlet's mosaic-worked door. 
The bright sun is his camera testing 

The black clouds have asunder been torn, 
Groups of rainbows and crosses are resting 

Every grandeur of sky to adorn. 
On the shrine where the loved one was lying 

Was another strange miracle wrought; 
For God's angels, as this one was dying, 

From the Spirit land flowers had brought, 
Such as God had before never given 

To His children while living below, — 
But treasured for loved ones in heaven, 

Yet does now unto Wau Bun bestow. 
When the sisters' sweet spirit descended 

To impart to this weary one rest, 
It found "PURITY-INNOCENCE" blended 

In each flower's immaculate breast. 

Since the morn of that earthly transition 
Are its signets by mortals unseen. 

But alike by the redman and Christian 
Has it emblem of chastity been. 
December 31, 1879. 

297 



Dulce Domum Poems 



NOTES 

The following pieces being poems of sentiment, or of 
a domestic character that would seem too sacred to be dis- 
played to the world, it was my original intention to exclude 
them from the volume, as I acknowledge that delicacy might 
dictate that these personal matters should be hidden from 
public gaze and confined to the delightful privacy of home. 
But as a number of my intimate acquaintances and warm 
l)ersonal friends whom I would feel justified in introducing 
to the hallowed precincts of my domestic life, believed thai 
the spirit and sentiment of these pieces would be a comfort 
and help to others if gi^;en a w'ider circulation, I have been 
induced to include the Home pieces in the back part of the 
volume under the head of 

DULCE DOMUM. 

Among those urging this course was my esteemed 
friend, the late gifted "Poet of the People," Professor James 
Gowdy Clark of California, whose letter upon the subject I 
append to their introduction. 

Pasadena, California, March 4th, 1896. 
Mr. E. O. Gale, 

Dear Sir and friend : 

After reading your Dulce Domum poems I think you 
should have them in your contemplated book. 

Have not the poets a name of looking too long at the 
moon and the stars and not perceiving and feeling the true 
light of home. Should not the curtains be lifted from the 

301 



windows, that sometimes this light should reach out over the 
loneliness of the moors. 

I am especially desirous of seeing these home poems in- 
corporated in your book, for having read them I feel that in 
your gift for making sweet and uplifting the common, every- 
day things of life you approach nearer to Burns than most 
any other American poet. 

Always your friend, 

JAMES G. CLARK. 



:302 




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o <-> 



<V <3J 



o S 
^ - 



:/: —I 



PREFACE TO DULCE DOMUM. 

If other bards before our days 

As they zvith Cupid tarried, 

Took pride in singing loud the praise 

Of 7iiaids they never married, 

As summer bees spent sunny hours 

Where honeyed sips were proffered, 

Alike to them all banks of Hozvers, 

Was food ambrosial offered, 

Or if they mono lovers proved 

And spent their lives in bringing 

The szveetest tributes to their loved 

In words the world keeps singing. 

Shall we from fear of cynics' sneer 

Conceal a love long plighted. 

That heaven of home made year by year, 

Its hallowed shrine kept lighted f 

Shall zve like old time hoiisezvives, hide 

Live coals 'neath ashen covers? 

Nor boast that former groom and bride 

Are still perennial lovers? 



303 



ON LEAVING MY FAMILY AT 
ELKHART LAKE, \VIS. 

The soft, warm air in riiisty shrouds 

Floats gently o'er yon hill, 
While my poor eyelids, like those clouds 

Against my efforts fill. 
Cheer up, cheer up, sad, foolish heart, 

By such farewells we learn 
No gloom can equal, when friends part. 

The joy of their return. 

May health the rose's blush bestow 

Upon thy cheeks so pale, 
And on our sons a ruddy glow 

Above the white prevail. 
May joy your absent hours fill 

To note that they improve. 
While I, away, will present still 

Be with you all in love. 

I leave you where this emerald band 

Enclasps the diamond rare, 
Which Nature — queen of every land — 

Is truly proud to wear. 
I leave you where Wisconsin's breast 

Is swelled with virgin pride. 
When skies find mirrored here at rest, 

Their beauties as they ride. 
[ leave you where the singing bird, 

304 



The insects' busy hum, 
A thousand harmonies are heard 

Inviting you to come. 
I leave you with the forest grand, 

With winds that stir its boughs, 
With love as firm as when my hand 

Pressed thine with sacred vows. 

July 21, 1863. 



ON THE DEATH OF OUR SON, OSCAR 

1 stood beside our Oscar's lifeless form; 
The casket tenantless of our first born; 
Above the dust inanimate of him 
Who long the idol of our heart had been. 
Forever closed were those clear eyes of blue. 
Which took their tint from June's unfretted skies, 
And calmness from the blessed dawn of day, 
When cloudless mornings greet the golden sun. 

For days Life's weary sentinels had marched 
The mystic paths arterial along, 
And to the tender touch bore to our hearts 
In their oft changing brisk or tardy pace, 
Despair or hope. But they were furloughed now, 
Xo more we felt the throbbing of their tread. 
Their paths deserted, lay like those blue tints 
Carrara presses in her marble tombs, 
To hold the matchless skies of Italy. 

30,") 



Those hands so worxt to warmly clasp my own, 
And twine around my neck confidingly, 
Lay folded as in prayer upon his breast. 
His lips, the ruby threshold of his heart, 
Around which played in life, those happy smiles, 
And from which poured the words of tenderness, 
Oft stamping on our own the seal of love, 
Were slightly parted now, as though his soul 
Had through them passage made for its true life. 
And gazing on him there as best I could, 
Amidst the gloom of that hushed, darkened room, 
Through blinding mists that so obscured my sight, 
I thus with my sad heart, alone communed. 

"And is this all there is to love and life? 

Have I thus blindly nursed affection's plant, 

To see it from me torn ; those roots so twined 

Around our hearts, dependent seemed on us. 

And we on them, why have we nursed them so ? 

What prompted us to love a transient flower? 

Why were we led by nature's holy law 

To love, and be so loved in turn^ by him? 

Why deemed our bliss enhanced the more we loved? 

That love to high perfection by me schooled 

Through these sweet years, adds mountains to my grief, 

Till now I know, had I adored him less, 

Much lighter would my sorrow be to bear. 

"Oh, thou who doth so cruelly divide 

These human hearts, so tuned to deathless love, 

30B 



Upon what grounds divine dost thou exist? 
What weal dost thou to human kind subserve? 
Why should these buds of promise blasted be? 
And our life's trees, by them made beautiful, 
Like barren oaks or lifeless plants become? 
That ripened fruit should nestle in the lap 
Of mother earth, in recompense for life, 
And mingle with its dust, seems nature's course. 
That blighted fruit, or gnawed by greedy worm 
Should weary of existence, drop to earth 
Seems in accord with nature's proper law. 
But that these buds, which blossom so for us. 
Bespeaking highest hope and purest joy, 
Should from our loving hands be rudely snatched. 
Appears to all right laws at variance." 

And yet, as gazing now upon that brow. 
So smooth and fair, but lately knit with pain, 
My heart, though almost bursting with its grief, 
Was thankful still, that pain for aye had ceased. 
And sorrows all, with him had passed away : 
That we, alone, should henceforth bear them all. 
How strange the strife which woe and grief invoke, 
When we have seen life's light go out in pain, 
They only know, whose saddened souls have felt, 
Beside the dead, bereavement's heavy blow. 
And if to-day w^th me the power lay 
To raise the dead, as did our Savior dear. 
I doubt would I recall from his bright home. 
To earth's attendant ills, our angel child. 

307 



Dear. Father, though my heart its protest makes 

Against Thy strange, mysterious ways, and tears, 

Reproving reason, testify my grief, 

Oh ! may I not Thy boundless grace suspect, 

Thy love, nor power infinite dispute. 

Thy will is not the will of man. Thy ways 

Are not by mortal blindness circumscribed. 

And if this hour, I cannot comprehend 

The wisdom of Thine unexplained plan. 

Nor reconcile the working of Thy laws 

With what I deem to be my highest good, 

So many tokens of Thy love I see, 

I cannot question Thy beneficence. 

Oh ! No. Thy tender love is infinite. 

And if in Thee we will but place our trust. 

And recognize the truth that this brief life 

Is but a span in that infinitude 

In which we yet shall with our loved ones dwell, 

We here may catch a glimmer of that plan, 

Which hides in earth the seed that first must die 

That future harvests make the whole world glad. 



"GOD WILL BE HERE SOON. " 

Last night, my son sat on my knee, 

A child of scarce three years, 

And turned his little face to me 

With smiles that age reveres, 

And said, "Look ! God will be here soon, 

He's coming very nigh. 

And in His hand He brings the moon. 

There, see Him in the sky? 

"He will not hurt us, will He, Pa ? 

For He loves you and me, 

And made for me that little star 

Which near the moon we see." 

His face with lofty radiance beamed, 

As speaking heavenly lore. 

And nearer God I someway seemed 

Than e'er I'd been before. 



My heart was touched, I kissed his brow, 

I watched his upturned eye. 

And said, "Be ever God as now, 

Near you in cloudless sky. 

Yet, should there come a heavy night, 

Do not, my dear boy, fear 

Because at times obscured from sight. 

He's not as now so near." 

July, 1864. 

309 



ON PRESENTING MY WIFE ON HER 

BIRTHDAY WITH A PORTRAIT 

OF OSCAR. 

Our hearts are blended here to-day, 

Are on this canvas spread. 

Our dear first born we laid away 

Seems risen from the dead. 

So true this likeness is, dear wife. 

In every part so true, 

It looks as if endowed with life 

'Twould speak to me and you. 

His eyes are beaming with the love 

That they were wont to shed. 

His lips seem ready now to move — 

Oh ! can it be he's dead ? 

My heart is voiced with broken sighs, 

And I but dimly see 

There hangs a mist between my eyes 

And his now turned to me. 

Deem not that I am unresigned 

To God's most holy will, 

I know that he is ever kind, 

Yet tears my eyes will fill. 

My reason chides, but they wilT start, 

I them cannot suppress. 

But God, I know, forgives the heart 

That bleeds in its distress. 

310 



There, there, poor wife, I'll be a man, 
Will choke my feelings down, 
Will dry my tears, as best I can 
A tender heart disown. , 

ril daily look upon that face, 
The sky beyond, so fair. 
And always turn to God for grace 
Our heavy load to bear. 

Accept, then, wife, this birthday gift. 
And though at times we sigh ' 
That God should take this way to lift 
Our thoughts to things on high, 
Where Oscar waits by pearly gates, 
With longing eyes to see, 
The coming of his little mates, 
His brothers, you and me 

W^e'll braver grow^ as we behold 
His likeness on the wall, 
And keep as now, vvhen we are old 
The one in memory's hall. 
Oh, may we never farther find 
Ourselves from him, dear wife. 
Than now, when we recall to mind, 
How noble was his life. 



311 



MY LITTLE BOY'S PRAYER. 

''Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, 
Bless thy little lamb to-night. 
Through the darkness be thou near me, 
Watch my sleep till morning light." 

Oh ! tender the Shepherd, how tender and near. 
My little boy breathes in his prayer every night 
In low tones he calls, yet believes He will hear, 
"Be near to me through darkness till dawning of light. 
Oh ! bless, tender Shepherd, Thy little lamb bless. 
Confiding he asks Thee, when closing his eyes. 
With little hands folded, that fully express 
Devotion as true as from lips can arise. 

In bending to kiss him, and bid him good night, 
I feel that the Shepherd has answered his prayer. 
I cannot discern him, too dim is my sight, 
But Jesus, the Shepherd, I know, must be there, 
So turning, I leave him, concealing a tear. 
In dreamland to vv^ander wherever he will. 
I know that the Shepherd will always be near, 
In shade of the vale or the sun o'er the hill. 

Oh ! may, tender Shepherd, his prayer ever be 
Confiding and simple and rev'rent as this, 
When night cometh on may his trust be in Thee, 
And pass through its gloom to the morning of bliss. 
Through all of life's darkness, kind Shepherd, attend. 

312 



In Thee may he ever feel trustful repose, 
Still leaning on Thee, as the arm of a friend, 
Thus whisper amen, when his life's day shall close. 



TO MY WIFE ON HER THIRTY-SIXTH 
BIRTHDAY. 

How gently Time hath dealt with thee. 

How softly drawn each line. 

As if determined none should see 

A symbol of decline. 

How loth he seems on thee to place 

The marks we all expect. 

Those furrows care plows in the face — 

I none in thee detect. 

At last, dear wife, I've found in truth 

What men long sought in vain, 

The fount that gives us back our youth. 

Which makes us young again. 

The roses blooming on thy cheek, 
The love which lights thine eye, 
The voice so sweet when e'er you speak 
Reveal that fount is nigh. 

We trace the distant brooklet's path 
By verdure rich and rank. 
That rose the brightest color hath 
That grows upon its bank. 



So when we see a happy face, 

Where smiles have always clung, 

We may — far down — the fountain trace- 

We know the heart is young. 

September 5, 1869. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

! Time, drop a stitch in thy weaving, 

1 turn to the old, from the new. 
Swing wide closing doors I am leaving, 
And let me a moment see through. 

The old, like a dream is fast fading, 
It soon will pass out of my sight, 
My heart has no fear of upbraiding, 
In halting a moment to-night. 

The hinges are rusty, now swinging 
That old fashioned, far away door. 
Sweet voices of children are singing, 
Their playthings I see on the floor. 
Our minds, like old attics, hold toys. 
Which formerly yielded delight 
To us and the dear girls and boys 
Of whom we are dreaming to-night. 

We leave them enjoying their bliss, 
Will hear not a word they may say. 
Think you that report a fresh kiss? 

314 



Oh ! no — from the far, far away, 

(You thought you ctnild give it the slip) 

An eeho has limited you down. 

It comes from no young person's lip, 

You blush, for you know it's your own. 

Old fellows, amongst your white hairs, 
I see their old partners in jet. 
They tell me in spite of your cares, 
Your hearts never froze over yet. 
Rut melt as the snow flakes in streams, 
When hearing some old fashioned tune. 
That locks you in slumbers, and dreams, 
As mothers would, rocking you, croon. 

! Time, on thy threshold I pause 
And sec, through this slow closing door. 
The shadow'y presence of those 
Whose places shall know them no more. 
These walls are enlivened with traces 
Of those I have formerly known. 

1 here see their glorified faces 
As familiar to me as my own. 

Like birds who bequeath to the sands. 
But prints of their feet when they fly 
O'er seas to the far-away lands, 
Or are gulphed in the measureless sky. 
The footprints of friendship are lost 
Down under the waves of the years, 

. 315 



'Tis seldom, amid all the host, 
The face of a loved one appears. 

Yet hangs on the wall at my right, 

Still nearer my heart, I confess, 

One miniature ever in sight, 

With a presence forever to bless. 

For yet does my son seem to be 

As really and truly my own, 

As when he would sit on my knee, 

And rule my fond heart from his throne. 

It yields a keen pleasure to me, 
To feel that I never can move 
To a spot so remote but that he 
Will find me and bless with his love. 
I pray do not fasten behind me. 
But leave just ajar the old door. 
Through it may come after, and find me, 
The darling, I dreamt was before. 

January ist, 1872. 



"LOVE IS BLIND. " 

I kissed her in parting, that bright Sabbath day, 

I kissed her in parting, as ever my way, 

When wife smiHng said, "Love. I know must be bhnd, 

Or for girhsh charms faded, you wrinkles woukl find. 

When poets said that "Love is blind" 
How little of such things they knew, 
At least of that especial kind 
Which I, dear wife, conceive for you. 
Is my love blind when I can see 
So much to love in thy dear face, 
And know these years thy love for me 
With mine for thee has kept apace? 

Is my love blind, wdien thy true life, 
A constant round of duty done, 
I see in thee as dear a wife 
As ever happy mortal won. 
Where precepts with examples wove, 
Our children learning both from thee^, 
Were comments on a mother's love 
In making life what it should be? 

Then speak no more of beauty fled, 
Nor charms once thine now passed away. 
What I so loved when we were wed, 
In thee, dear wife, defies decay. 
The apple blooms that, blushingly, 

317 



Soft sunbeams kiss in sweet salute, 
Must changed become ere we can see 
On bending bough the ripened fruit. 

So if perchance thin be thy face, 

Thy cheeks outgrown their early bloom, 

And in thy tresses we may trace 

Where silver threads run through the loom, 

I would not change a single line 

Which Time has through the years prepared. 

Why heed these wrinkles, thine or mine. 

So long as we to each are spared? 

I've had life's blessings, rich and free. 
And for them all most grateful feel. 
The source of most I trace to thee, 
And in thy love enjoy them still; 
If Love be blind, we'll bless the boy 
Who blindly led us to his fold. 
And fills our hearts with so much joy, 
We quite forget we're growing old. 

September 5th, 1873. 



318 



TO A NEPHEW AND HIS BRIDE UPON 
THEIR WEDDING DAY. 

You're standing, young friends, upon Hope's golden shore, 

With the fair Land of Promise far stretching before. 

With sunbeams around you, from clear skies above, 

And roses to brighten the pathway of love. 

How happy were life if with Love's golden chain 

The roses and sun we could always retain; 

The affection which, now, we intensely possess, 

We in all future years should as strongly express. 



The old mountaineer ever makes the best guide, 
So we, married long, can, to groom and to bride. 
Point out the smooth paths so delightful to tread. 
Avoiding rough trails, by the thorns overspread. 
And warn you of chasms which yawn by the way, 
The pitfalls of danger where feet should not stray : 
Would show you the landscape, where soft shadow^s lie, 
Which add to the charms as they go drifting by. 

We felt that no siren could enter our realm, 
No Scylla destroy, no Charybdis o'erwhelm, 
But, watchful and wise^ we w'ould carefully shun 
The rocks in our course, on which others had run. 
We've toiled hand in hand from that moment to this, 
Though sorrow has mingled at times with cur bliss. 
We've taken the cup both of weal and of woe 
As God in His love has seen fit to bestow. 



319 



'Tis well to remember few pictures are made 
In which with the light is not blended the shade 
And should one a fault in the other find^ please 
Conceal it with honey, as do the wise bees. 
If Charlie is cross, which of course cannot be, 
Advise him to come and take lessons of me. 
Should Maggie be fretful and hector your life. 
Just send her around to take lessons of wife. 

November 12, 1874. 



TO MY W^IFE UPON HER FORTY-FIRST 
BIRTHDAY. 

You're forty-one, so don't complain 

That now and then a thread 

Escapes of Time's soft silver skein. 

And drops upon your head. 

Nor that a wrinkle now and then 

Is left for you to wear, 

For when you smile it melts again, 

So neither of us care. 

Don't care indeed. What is the harm 
If we do older grow? 
The sun lies in the valley warm, 
Though summits show the snow ; 
And if our heads should be as white 
As San Jacinto's peak, 

320 



We'll keep our hearts young, warm and light, 
And lover's language speak. 

Aye ! That's the way old Time to treat 

And rob him of his sting : 

Love does not tremble at our feet, 

Like bird with broken wing, 

If we but treat him as we should 

And did, long years ago. 

Although he's old his memory's good, 

And we would have it so. 

What fools those married people are. 

Who think their "courting days" 

Should cease ; that marriage vows should bar 

Recourse to lovers' ways. 

They lose the harvest early sown. 

Since choked by tares and tears, 

They need the love, they might have grown 

To cheer declining years. 

No jewels, wife, I bring to thee. 

No precious gifts bestow. 

But all my troth songs sing to thee, 

I sang so long ago. 

And if at times in singing, love, 

I drop to minor keys, 

I'm praising God for bringing, love. 

Such happy days as these. 

321 



Then here's my hand, my dearest. 
For years it's toiled for thee 
And those who are the nearest 
To you, dear wife, and me. 
And when old age comes creeping, 
Along its nerveless palm, 
May God and love be keeping 
Us both, from every harm, 
September 5th, 1874. 

I MISS THE SONGS MY SISTER SANG. 

Music by Henry S. Sawyer. 

I miss, dear sister, those old songs you used to sing to me, 
Those sweet, pathetic melodies you sang in minor key 
When blazing fires upon the hearth lit up the dear old room 
And shades in cozy corners left a sense akin to gloom. 
Then you and I were both in love with each, and one beside, 
When you in singing saw your groom, and 1 my loving bride. 
I miss those old time melodies, I miss them and miss thee. 
And question as I hum those airs if you and he miss me. 

I miss those songs, my sister dear, you used to sing for me, 
And wonder if you sing them yet in that same minor key. 
Those children of the heart should live ; you cannot let them 

die. 
Such chords would swell the harmony your voice blends with 

on high. 
And him who joined with you in heart, with hand, and with 

his voice, 

322 



The thought of whom when then you sang made your young 

heart rejoice, 
I miss you both, my sister dear. I sing your songs when sad, 
And they recall the old hearth's glow and those dear times 

we had. 

I miss those sweet songs, sister dear, you used to sing for me 
As I sat dreaming when you sang and fancied I could see 
Amidst the waning embers' glow the smile of some sweet 

face. 
Which only lives in memory, as I in ashes trace. 
Yet happy thoughts abide with me through sunshine and 

through rain 
With presence still of many loved to mollify my pain; 
While best of all, the girl I saw in embers as a bride 
Has been my wife these forty years, and now sits by my side. 

The household is divided dear, united so below. 

But some made haste to reach the goal, while some still 

travel slow. 
The fires upon the hearth are out that made the old home 

bright. 
And voices hushed in silence now which then gave such de- 
light ; 
Or rather as the birds that fly from winter's wild bassoon 
Still sing the songs in orange groves they sang for us in 

June. 
So you, dear sister, sweetly sing, wherever you may be. 
Those cherished songs in minor key you used to sing to me. 
November i6, 1895. 



THEN AND NOW. 

As I rock here — dear wife of mine — 
And watch Time's pendulum swing by, 
My thoughts to former days incline, 
Which I recall without a sigh. 
For hopes, then ours, were not in vain 
When trusting, that in years to come, 
The love, then felt, might still remain 
And prove the corner stone of home. 

Years have not dimmed that early joy, 
But only made it still more bright; 
And what then thrilled the girl and boy, 
Fills wife and husband with delight. 
For Time, who grinds the rose to dust 
And turns so many hopes to woes. 
Has been much more than kind to us, 
Through twenty years of sun and snows. 

Now if it weak in me appears 
And ill becomes my head of gray 
To breathe those vows of early years, 
To utter what I used to say, 
Forget, dear wife, that I am old, 
And let us hand in hand sit down. 
Recall the time when first we told 
The love, we hardly dared to own. 

I know we now both feel as deep 
As then, that sentiment of love. 



And in our hearts we ever keep 
The mem'ry of that "White winged dove, 
That used to bear us once a week 
Those words, that sacred still appear, 
And in our ears sweet language speak, 
That other people could not hear. 

How I, alone, so late at night, 
Would write the letters you still keep 
Then reread yours with such delight. 
And live their contents in my sleep. 
If then to each we did impart 
True happiness in every vow. 
With greater joy should throb the heart 
To know we then loved less than now. 
February 20, 1876. 

LIGHT AND SHADE. 

One morning, early in the May, 

I heard a robin sing, 

And list'ning to its sweet-toned lay, 

Prophetic of the Spring, 

I thought how blissful life must be, 

That, like a shuttle, wove 

The fragrance of the apple tree 

With Southern orange grove. 

The air was like the breath of June 
That roses wild, exhale, 

32.-) 



Yet questioned I "Were it too soon 

For Summer to prevail?" 

The clouds, encamped in fields of blue, 

Like soldiers, pitched their tents ; 

In open ranks, the sun passed through 

The brilliant regiments. 

By fertile fields I took my way. 

I saw the upturned soil 

Where happy farmers drew their pay 

For health bestowing toil. 

The boys employed were free from cares, 

As was the breath they spent. 

In loudly singing simple airs. 

Or whistling as they went. 

And when I thought how Fate served me, 

Brought much to make me sad, 

I almost wished the bird to be. 

The farmer, or the lad. 

I saw the outward wave of joy, 

But not the undertow, 

I heard the song of bird and boy, 

Their sorrows did not know. 

I envied each his pleasant lot, 

In every one could see 

A happy heart that worried not, 

And wished my own as free. 

But in the night the wind veered 'round 

326 



..^vx^ ^ i .T j gf^^j! . ^ .. ; . 




By fertile fields 1 took 
I saw the upturned soil 



And changed the scene again : 
In waking, I next morning found 
Earth glazed with frozen rain. 

And as I snugly lay in bed, 

Half dreaming, half awake. 

The truant thought came in my head. 

How great was my mistake 

To think that all the ills of life 

Were showered down on me. 

While from its burdens and its strife. 

The husbandman was free, 

For while I might in comfort sleep, 
The farmer, envied so, 
Was 'tending to his hogs and sheep, 
With frequent oath and blow. 
The boy, as early from his bed, 
Now hungry, cross and wet. 
Was milking in a leaky shed. 
And kicked each cow he met. 

The bird, without a worm or crumb 

To fill its little mouth, 

Upon a frozen limb, sat dumb, 

Much wishing it was South. 

The whistle and the song had fled, 

The sun forgot to shine. 

And I resolved, there in my bed. 

To never more repine. 



And when I heard the breakfast bell, 

Beheld the tempting board, 

Found happy wife and children well, 

I thanked the gracious Lord, 

Who filled my soul with lofty cheer 

And guarded, day and night, 

A home, where Love's sweet atmosphere 

Made my existence bright. 

February 20th, 1876. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

The ripened fruit is falling, 

The grain is in the stack. 

The birds of flight are calling 

Their mates to hasten back. 

From wniter's snow storms, frightful. 

Where cruel frosts so sting. 

To former homes delightful 

Away with restless wing. 



Yet, while they in their gladness 
Pour forth their notes of praise, 
I feel a sense of sadness 
Thrill through me with their lays. 
Their little nests forsaken 
These leafless trees reveal, 
Whose barren trunks awaken 
A gloom Fd vain conceal. 



For on an April morning, 

Now many years ago, 

With days of painful warning, 

Which crushed our hearts with woe, 

Our first born from us parted, 

Forsook the dear home nest. 

We prayed, though broken hearted, 

For strength to think it best. 

And still my heart is wrestling 
With Hope and Faith's bright host: 
I moan, "I miss my nestling;" 
They say, "He is not lost." 
I ask, "Where did he vanish?" 
They say, "He's with his own." 
My grief they strive to banish, — 
My idol's overthrown. 

Hence, seeing birds forsaking 
The nests where they have grown, 
My heart seems almost breaking 
When thinking of my own. 
Those birds return in May, 
They come with breath of flowers, 
But the longed for keeps away, 
That darling bird of ours. 

There arc times I think I hear 
The songs he used to sing, 
Can feel, it seems, so near 

329 



The rustle of a wing. 

Ah ! we'll hear that song some clay, 

Here in the dear old nes 

He will come to show the way 

Which leads to perfect rest. 

Yes, we listen to the songs 
Of birds prepared for flight, 
And we watch the little throngs 
Until they pass from sight 
And ask when we will go, 
And where that journey ends? 
As the birds, God guides us too, 
Will take us to our friends. 
October 8, 1876. 

ON MY W^IFE'S PORTRAIT. 

In vain a skillful artist strove 

To paint a portrait of my love ; 

The head, the neck, the brow, the hair, 

Each by itself was very fair. 

But when I tried them to combine 

I failed to find that wife of mine. 

Her lips accustomed to caress. 

Her eyes so full of tenderness, 

A meaning have when turned to me 

I certain am no others see, 

And fail to comprehend when told 

What my fond eyes alone behold. 

330 



With joy I from vain efforts turn, 
From man concealed, but I discern 
That hidden mystery, which seems 
Intangible as fleeting dreams. 
Deep underlying every line 
I see the soul, dear wife, of thine 
Which lightens up for me your face. 
Yet seeing not, no art can trace. 
And lacking which there cannot be 
A likeness true, my wife, of thee. 

September 30, 1877. 



TO H. S. AND HIS BRIDE UPON THEIR 
WEDDING DAY. 

The golden stream whose waters gleam 

On childhood's happy border. 

Where Love lies floating like a dream. 

No use for sail nor rudder, 

Bears older throngs with same love songs 

As when the skies seemed brighter, 

When hearts now chilled, were warm and strong, 

And human cares pressed lighter. 

Still on its tide float groom and bride. 
The same sky bending o'er them, 
While by the shore on either side 
Stroll wedded folks before them. 



Are their skies blue, or a leaden hue 
Depends how love is wearing, 
Does its yoke fit they still pull true 
All duties gladly bearing. 

Were word or rhyme, deemed so sublime 
When used by young folks, sparking 
Corked up like wine, to show sometime 
When age has dimmed the marking, 
Who would believe that there could live 
Such soft and brainless creatures? 
No girl nor boy could ever give 
Nor hear such silly speeches. 

Yet happier far those children are 
(Who once in love can blame them?) 
Than crabbed pa and fretful ma. 
Who foolishly would shame them. 
Let old folks jeer and cynics sneer 
At Cupid's young apostles, 
They've more to cheer in life's career 
Than heart bemummied fossils. 

Though sad it be, we sometimes see 

That love in age is missing, 

We harsh words hear, thrown spitefully 

From lips once prone to kissing. 

The mad bee's sting is a tiny thing, 

A hasty word's another. 

But rankling poison either bring, 

With pain that's hard to smother. 



I think it true, and give to you 

A secret worth the knowing, 

To keep your love forever new. 

Forever warm and glowing, 

The same attentions you should show. 

The same consideration 

Which you would joyfully bestow. 

Before this new relation. 

The pleasant way is plain to-day, 

It needs no pointing finger, 

When love is true, there bliss will stay. 

Where young, it loves to linger. 

And if you'd keep it ever bright, 

The flame forever burning, 

Re-live the vows you breathed to-night 

With every day's returning. 

August 5, 1879. 



MY FATHER UPON HIS 83rd BIRTHDAY. 

Galewood, Aug. 24, 1879. 
As in this grove you so much love, 
Some grand old oaks are standing. 
The woodman's ax did not remove 
But spared at thy commanding, 
While in their shade huge trunks are laid, 
Bedecked with ferns and mosses, 
Rare epitaphs by nature made 

333 



To chronicle her losses, 

So, now and then, we meet with men, 

By Time left in his mowing 

Whose years run by three score and ten. 

Few signs of failure showing. 

Those spared may find mates left behind 

Who once so dearly loved them, 

With ferns and mosses close entwined 

On sinking roofs above them. 

And as we see 'twas kind in thee 

And wise to leave thus growing, 

What promise gave of noble tree, 

Thy care on it bestowing. 

You followed but the Father's ways 

We grope along so blindly, 

Who crowned your life with useful days, 

And treats you ever kindly. 

And if we mourn some young trees gone. 

And aged crumbling near us, 

We praise the Lord that you, for one. 

Are spared so long to cheer us. 



334 



TO MY SON ON HIS 20th BIRTHDAY. 

When you stand where I stand, with your face to the west, 
After climbing Hfe's hill with the vigor of youth, 
May you feel the Good Father in your case has blest 
A character based on Love, Honor and Truth. 
I ask not for you, wealth of houses and lands, 
Nor aught that is bought at the price of content, 
But enough of success for all frugal demands 
And the evening of life when its powers arc spent. 

When you stand where I stand, with your face to the west, 
With your boys, like my boys, half a dozen or more. 
With your wife like your mother, and save her the best. 
Be you blest in them all, as your father before. 
May your joys be like mine, and your sons be like you, 
All a mother and father could wish them to be. 
Their respect and their love prompting each one to do 
For the son I adore, as have my boys for me. 

When you stand where I stand, with your face to the west, 

With the valley far stretching in beauty below, 

May it look like a spot where the weary may rest 

And a happy old age be delighted to go. 

Being conscious of having your duties well done. 

May you meet with your boys on occasions like this. 

Every grace of the father enabling each son 

Early joys to renew, every sorrow dismiss. 



33:. 



OPTIMISM. 

How often I think of the bhss of my lot, 
So favored am I above most of my race, 
And say to myself, "In the world there is not 
A man so exalted I envy his place." 

Good health and true friends, my days brimming with joys, 
A home that is all we can ask for in life. 
The altar around which I gather my boys 
And bow at the shrine of my duty and wife. 

I accept every good God is pleased to bestow 
With a sense of His love, as a grateful heart should ; 
I seek not the thorns that His roses may grow. 
Nor search for some ill underlying His good. 
The reason and logic to others so clear, 
That God wisely chose we unhappy should be 
Through years of probation, enslaving us here 
That Heaven be purchased, seems nonsense to me. 

In gladness I walk in the path I must tread. 

Enjoying the good I find scattered around, 

Salutes I receive from the stars overhead. 

The breath of the flowers that burst from the ground. 

I borrow no trouble, uncover no woe. 

But let it sleep on just as long as it may, 

Will live while I live, yet am ready to go 

When God in His wisdom shall call me away. 

I comprehend not why I favored should be. 
In health and in home, in my children and wife, 

336 



Why blessings so thickly are showered on me, 
And those whom I love so much better than life, 
While trials from which we would all of us shrink, 
In kindness from me are withheld day by day, 
When pressed to my lips^ why the cup when I drink 
A nectar contains for which princes might pray. 

I trust I am grateful for all I possess, 
The blessings which heaven so kindly bestows, 
When seeing around me so much of distress. 
The pathway of many so hedged in with woes. 
And should in His wisdom the Father design 
The joys so long mine are not always to last, 
I hope I may never complain nor repine. 
But bow to the hand that gave bliss in the past. 

December 28, 1879. 



MY FATHER. 

(When this poem first appeared in the Chicago Evening 
Journal my friend, Andrew Shuman, its editor, who ap- 
preciated my father's modesty, suggested that the caption be 
changed to the "Good Old Man," which was done, and under 
this title I afterwards ran across it in the Chatter Box.) 

I know a man of six and four score years. 
For half a century have known him well ; 
To me a grand exami)lcr he appears. 
In whom all human virtues seem to dwell. 



Those faults we always in our neighbors see 
And may, perchance, some few ourselves possess. 
In hirn, we never find a trace to be. 
And wish like him, the Lord would all men bless. 

He never caused a single tear to flow 
Except in gratitude for kindly word 
Or deed his heart impelled him to bestow. 
The whispers of the blest by him are heard. 
As in all ears they breathe what we should do, 
To comfort those, who writhe in sin and pain 
But spurned by all, save by the noble few 
Who kindly lead them to a higher plain. 

He never boasts of any good he's done. 

But gentle impulse blooming into deeds. 

Have dropped in blessings rich, on many a one 

Who never knew the hand that met their needs. 

Through all the years the lofty thoughts have been 

Slow moulding his serene and happy face, 

Till you can almost see the soul within 

His features lighting, with its hallowed grace. 

His eyes so dim that he can scarce discern 
The nearest objects, yet he well can see 
By memory's golden torch the hushed return 
Of those who are to us unknown to be. 
With ear so dull, that he can scarcely hear 
The ordinary converse of our kind. 
Yet hears those happy voices full of cheer 
Which left him, many years ago, behind. 



As long, upon some mountain crest 
The setting sun will cast its lingering ray, 
While, in the vale, the hird has sought its nest 
And toil is resting at the close of day, 
So, while he. waiting in the valley walks, 
His sunny thoughts defy his feehle frame, 
And of the future he with rapture talks. 
Or lives in memory his life again. 

His work is done, and, resting from his toil, 

The ceaseless labors of his lengthened days, 

He calmly waits the Father's voice to call. 

Whose name he ever breathes with lofty praise. 

His life so loyal unto God and truth, 

Is free from past regrets and future fears. 

The heart attuned to wisdom in his youth 

With warm, strong beat keeps young his later years. 

April 29, 1883. 



TO MY WIFE ON HER FIFTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

Is it possible, wife, you are fifty to-day? 

How fast we grow old, how the years slip away. 

God bless you, dear wife — grow old, did I say? 

You never seemed younger to me than to-day. 

Your cheeks are less round, may lack some of the hue 

Of berries and cream that when younger peeped through. 

But kind is your voice, and your smile is as sweet, 

339 



Your eyes beam as softly when mine they may meet, 
While everything proves that you more than retain 
Your graces of heart and treasures of brain. 

Is it possible, wife, you are fifty to-day? 

With spirits as light as a robin's in May? 

I used to think people at fifty were old, 

Inclined to rheumatics, to censure and scold, 

But age imparts wisdom, and well I now know 

Some people are younger the older they grow. 

In life's dewy morn they may question if love 

Will always as then so demonstrative prove? 

But when it is proven, the heart is at rest. 

And the rose on the cheek has found root in the breast. 

Is it possible, wife, you are fifty to-day. 

And look and feel young as you do and you say? 

Though when I turn backward and calmly review 

The distance I've traveled and so far with you. 

See middle-aged totter — and most of them gone — 

Meet hosts of grown people who then were not born, 

Where once lived my mates, I their grandchildren see, 

It appears quite uncanny such changes can be : 

Yet I think 'twould be true if we some day were told 

Should our lives be prolonged that we too might grow old. 

But what boots it, dear wife, that you're fifty to-day? 
When buds turn to fruit that assures no decay. 
We've toiled hand in hand for this many a year, 
Have planted and tended — the harvest draws near. 

34U 



The Father our labor has certainly blest, 

Life's afternoon shadows invite us to rest. 

In youth we beheld the magnificent sight, 

In cauldrons of glory the sun melt the night. 

And watching its setting we know its last ray 

To -the zenith will stream, like those first tints of day. 



TO A SON ON HIS WEDDING DAY. 

My thoughts this hour are backward cast 
Along the dimly lightly lane, 
That joins the memories of the past 
With hopes that blossom here again. 
I stand beside my boyhood's choice, 
Where still she keeps her hallowed place, 
I hear as then her pleasant voice 
And see as then her happy face. 

Her old home stands in memory's hall. 
With vines about its windows wide, 
Beneath the shade of maples tall 
I see again the groom and bride. 
With me, for me she left the spot 
So dear to her, to hers so dear ; 
And of home's circle there is not 
One left to give that old-time cheer. 

Those early mates are mostly gone. 
Our own sons fast becoming men, 

341 



And as the sunset mirrors morn 

We see in you ourselves again. 

The bloom which from our cheeks has fled, 

We now perceive did not decay, 

It merely changed its place instead, 

It dropped from us with you to stay. 

You know, dear son, our home has been 
Of all ''Sweet Homes" with scarce a peer, 
That early love we still retain ; 
It stronger grows with every year. 
From this, then, learn what home may be, 
How love fills life with pure delight. 
How from its smiles all shadows flee. 
As stars dispel the gloom of night. 

And when I say our love we know 
The choicest gift from Cupid's throne, 
I wonder, if in saying so, 
You whisper 'Tlease except our own?" 
But we will not that point discuss. 
We only wish that this prove true, 
What mutual love has done for us 
May it as fully do for you. 

May Truth and Honor crown your days, 
Those virtues we in you admire 
Deserving are of highest praise — 
To which the noblest may aspire — 
Tlicy never mould, they never rust, 

342 



But brighter grow with growing years, 
They build a character of trust 
With attributes that man reveres. 

We cannot lift the massive veil 

Which hides the future from our sight, 

We only know if love prevail 

It works for all eternal right. 

God bless you both. May hand in hand 

You journey through a happy life, 

With blessings crowned, as true and grand. 

As ever fell to man and wife. 

February 25, 1886. 



"TURN YOUR FACE TO THE SUN. " 

She was brushing my coat, that sweet-heart of mine, 
Which to vindicate self, I declared I had done. 
But she said as observing the dust in clouds, fine 
Float away on its beams : "Turn your face to the sun." 

Then placing my hands on her soft, wavy hair, 
While I smilingly gazed in her dear eyes of blue, 
I replied as I kissed her on forehead so fair, 
'T am doing so wife, I am looking at you.'' 

December 5, 1886. 



»t3 



MY WIFE 

My sole ambition is to win 
The fond approval of her eyes, 
Who for so many years has been 
The solar orb of home's bright skies. 



TO MY WIFE V^HEN ABSENT IN 
ANN ARBOR, MICH. 

Alone I sit, dear wife alone, 

And think of home deprived of thee, 

I count the hours, one by one, 

So slow their creeping seems to be. 

I think of thee, and thank the gift 

That draws the distant near my chair; 

The thought that has the strength to lift 

The clouds, when absence breeds despair. 

For life, dear wife, to me were drear 
Were you inclined from me to roam, 
I need thy presence, smiles and cheer, 
The help I gain from thee and home. 
But with these aids I fight with will 
Wherever duty guides the blow. 
My mind conceives no coming ill, 
But basks in bliss your smiles bestow. 

Thou memory, art friend indeed, 
When wisely we the choicest grant, 

a44 



When love itself selects the seed, 
And loving hands till ground we plant: 
I thank thee, partial friend so kind, 
That when I wish to veil some view, 
You shift the lenses of my mind 
Till I but see life's golden hue. 

I thank thee, friend of former day, 

Although you might have thoughtless sown. 

When love with us was in life's May, 

Its early roses scarcely blown ; 

I thank thee that the harvest grand 

Is bound as sheaves in home's sweet mart, 

Where boys and parents, hand in hand, 

Attest the w^orth of heart to heart, 

November 13, 1887. 



CONCENTRATED BUTTER. 

I am eating the bread now, my darling, 
That you spread as I started from home, 
And although unaccustomed to snarling. 
Ever thankful am I for each crumb, 
Yet I think it no harm should I tell you, 
While so loud in my praise of your bread. 
That the butter could any day spell you 
If too weak to arise from your bed. 
It is strong as the love that is binding. 
Our affection for so many years; 

345 



While no fault with its age I am finding, 
Still it makes a big draft on my tears 
When I think of the thousands of posies, 
Which is throughout the dim ages long past. 
Were preserved (as the rushes did Moses) 
To be eaten by me here at last. 

June 9, 1888. 



ON RECEIVING A MAPLE LEAF FROM 

"AUNT MARY'S" GRAVE IN NEW- 

BURYPORT, MASS. 

Oh ! sunset hues in crimson bars, 

Oh emblem leaf of fiery Mars, 

What message do you bring to me 

From that far grave by moaning sea? 

I trace where perfect life hath been. 

When skies were blue, when woods were green, 

When proffered you the orb of day 

Ambrosial food in every ray 

When rains were drunk and summer dew. 
With quaffs of air from bowls of blue 
Those gifts the sky bestowed on thee, 
You freely gave the growing tree. 
And, in this sunset of the year, 
WTien plains are brown and woods are sere, 
You caught the rainbows in their fall, 
Conserved their beauties, one and all. 

346 



Bright maple leaf, long may you hold 
These crimson drifts on ground of gold, 
And bring to mind, each time I see, 
Her held so dear in memory. 
As messengers from her I prize 
These brilliant tokens of the skies. 
The fleecy clouds, the sunny rays, 
The warp and woof of summer days. 

Her perfect life with thine, fair leaf. 
Will memory bind in golden sheaf. 
She drank the glories of the sun 
And shed its light on every one. 
Whatever on earth was bright or fair. 
Or drifted down the heavenly stair. 
She used some troubled brow to crown, 
Their cross she carried as her own. 

Thus, passing from our tear-dimmed sight, 
She left with us, for our delight, 
The thought of all her pleasant ways. 
Whose heart of love moved lips of praise. 
Whose smiles life's clouds would silver line, 
Whose words were wealth, whose deeds divine. 
So heart and leaf keep fresh for me 
Aunt Mary's blessed memory. 

November 2-], 1887. 



3n 



ON SEEING OSCAR'S PLAYTHINGS 

This morn at my altar when kneeUng, 

As I bowed at my heart's hallowed shrine, 

I the presence of Oscar was feeling, 

A presence akin to divine, 

I knelt and micovered the treasures, 

Which treasures are only to those 

Whose tears have long tempered their pleasures, 

As mists dull the tints of the rose. 

No value have they to a stranger. 
No price would they bring in the mart, 
Nor those we protect from all danger, 
Safe locked in the vault of the heart. 
Should these, our fond idols all perish 
By moth, or by rust, or decay. 
Our hearts would still tenderly cherish 
The toys of our boy, passed away. 

There are marbles, and tops and a ball. 
There are pencils and pieces of strings. 
And my tears, unrepressed, I let fall 
As I rev'rently gazed on *'his things.' 
Then I waited a moment to see. 
It was growing so dark in the room. 
Till I found 'twas the darkness in me. 
It was I, only I, filled with gloom. 

As the leaves will impale the sweet showers 
Until freed by some swift, passing breeze, 

348 



So we find these old eye-lids of ours 
Will restrain our poor tears, like the trees, 
Till our hearts by their throbbings below 
Will release them at length, like the blast, 
And the clouds break away and we know 
That the sunshine is gleaming at last. 

Then I picked up his dear little slate, 
So obscure are the lines, that they seem 
Like some shadowy path to that Gate, 
Which we follow in thoughts up to him. 
Here's his bib, rumpled into its ring, 
Sadly faded to-day is its blue : 
There, the songs he delighted to sing, 
And the Reader he read through and through. 

Then his Bible, I found myself kissing. 
In containing that promise of old, 
How every dear lamb that is missing 
Will at length be with Christ in the fold. 
Oh ! deem it not weakness to linger, 
Let me gaze on that soft, curly hair, 
While I think of HER, and the finger 
Over which, Lucy curl'd it with care. 

What a comfort that love is unending: 
Like the limitless heavens above 
Which but seem in horizons descending 
Is the infinite presence of love. 
That love overwhelms me thus kneeling, 

349 



Tell me not, I am kneeling in vain. 
For his presence unseeing, I'm feeling 
As unseeing the roses feel rain. 

November 2, 1889. 



HOMEW^ARD THROUGH THE SNOWSTORM. 

Across the dreary prairie, how keen the cold wind blows. 
From every shifting quarter descend the blinding snows. 
While masquerading nature assumes fantastic form 
As does the snowy trav'ler, slow struggling through th( 

storm. 
The black and starless vestments of heavy burdened sky 
Shut out familiar objects, and those which may be nigh 
Are by their snowy mantles so perfectly concealed, 
To questioning touches only can figures be revealed. 

On such a night forbidding, how doubly blest the cheer 
That home and its plain comforts, bring unto me, my dear. 
I see the lighted window, when toils of day are o'er, 
Anticipate the greeting which meets me at the door. 
Our children by our hearth-stone with smiles of welcome 

meet. 
The glowing grate inviting to warm my slippered feet. 
I hail the bright surroundings, lock out external gloom. 
Drink in the joys that center in our delightful room. 
The prattle of our children, the story read aloud, 

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That home with its plain comforts, bring unto me, my dear. 



How the waves would o'erwhelm us with fear 
If not drunk by the unappeased sand, 
In a flash, does each drop disappear, 
All absorbed by the ocean and land. 
I can feel the salt air on my brow, 
From far Greenland and Africa blown. 
And I wonder how Neptune can knov/ 
The proportion of each for this zone. 

All of this and much more do I see, 
All of this and much more do I hear; 
I am looking my darling at thee, 
And I hear your sweet voice as if near. 
So, my love, I am with you this morn. 
On the shore of the far stretching sea. 
And although you may think you are gone, 
You are never far absent from me. 

July 2-], 1890. 



TO MY WIFE AND BOYS 

When Spending Their Vacation on the Coast of Maine. 

" I am waiting, waiting, waiting, 
In the darkness and the gloom; 
I am waiting and debating 
With these phantoms in my room. 
Softly falls upon my eyesight, 
Gently stirred by passing breeze, 

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With the flicker of the street light 
The deep shadows of the trees. 

How their lofty tops are swaying 
And, in yielding to the air 
All the changeful shadows, playing, 
Dance like phantoms round my chair ; 
While the sprites and fleeting graces 
As they glide along the street, 
Turn to gnomes with such queer faces 
As would frighten one to meet. 

How my room they strangely people ! 

If I turn towards the sky, 

I can see the stately steeple. 

See the fleecy clouds pass by. 

Or behold the bright stars burning, 

Melt their way into the blue, 

While my thoughts are oft returning. 

Darling wife and boys, to you. 

Can you wonder when awaiting 
Why my heart seems ill at ease, 
Why my fancy is creating 
From these children of the trees — 
The strange beck'ning of a finger. 
As the shadows come and go, 
That seems asking "Why so linger? — 
For the sands of Time run slow." 

353 



No, the lamp upon my table, 

I will not, my darling, light, 

But will fill my thoughts' old cradle 

With its children, love, to-night. 

Will delight my heart in knowing 

That however far from me 

Are my wife and sons, I'm going 

Soon to meet you by the sea. 

August 3, 1890. 



LINES TO MR. AND MRS. D. R., PORT HURON, 

On the Marriage of Their Daughter. 

We can sympathize, friends, with your feelings this morn ; 
Hand in hand in our thoughts, do we roam through your 

halls; 
So replete with reminders of her who is gone, 
While with you we look up to the ceilings and walls, 
Which have echoed for years such a world of sweet strains, 
And the fall of a footstep, hence seldom tc hear, 
Or the snatches of songs, ':he familiar refrains, 
Like the carol of birds, from your daughter so dear. 

Ah ! well do we know at what cost to your heart, 

Is the gift you've bestowed upon us and our son. 

We can see, through your smiles, hidden tears as you part, 

Bravely breathing amen to the deed that is done. 

You, forgetting yourselves, seeking only their weal, 

354 



. i^:L 




How their lofty tops are swavin; 
And in yielding to the air — 



Have unselfishly yielded the stay of your life, 
The delightful companion, whose absence you'll feel 
In the years that the daughter is lost in the wife. 

When the twilight shall gather, you often will sit 
As the shadows grow long, and your pulses beat slow, 
Low repeating her words you can never forget. 
With her praise on your lips ever proud to bestow. 
How the thoughts of her childhood will come to you then, 
Of the tears you kissed back when just ready to flow, 
And the smiles that illumined her young face again 
As your love her heart melted and set it aglow. 

When the curtains are drawn and the lights dimly burn. 

You will think of her then in the quiet old room. 

Aye ! your memory often will tenderly turn 

As invoking their Laura to banish the gloom. 

Not a word will you speak, not a sign will you make. 

Far too holy for language your reveries then. 

But the hand of the mother the father will take, 

And the years of the past will be living again. 

Yes, the gladness we feel, and that sanctified bliss 
In our hearts and our homes your dear Laura to greet, 
Will unselfish remain, as we think how you miss 
The delight she bestowed ; and the influence sweet 
Of reflections like these, shall as talisman prove 
To protect her and lighten each burden she bears: 
With its charm in us finding your own tender love. 
Joining her in her joys, while dividing her cares. 
November 8, 1891. 

35.-) 



WEARINESS 

I sometimes feel 'twould be a boon 
To lay my heavy burdens down: 
For, having reached life's afternoon, 
When brow is pressed by thorny crown, 
I sadly long for calm repose, 
The land of sweet forgetfulness ; 
To fold my hands, my eyes to close 
Would be, it seems, ecstatic bliss. 

I feel the waning of my strength. 

The clouds look darker than they were. 

The nights are all of greater length. 

The days once longer than they are : 

My eyes are dimmer to behold 

The silver lining to the cloud, 

My ears more dull when I am told: 

"With fruit will these black limbs be bowed. 

As fails my strength, my courage wanes; 
I mountains see where once were hills ; 
Though not beset by aches and pains. 
And quite exempt from mortal ills, 
Yet now I lag around the base 
Of self-made mountains in my way, 
No heart have now to run the race, 
Nor scale the heights that once was play. 

The burdens I did younger bear, 
With smiles took up, and gladly bore, 



Like gladiator proud to wear 

The wreaths received, and fought for more, 

I now leave willingly for those 

To whom both youth and strength are lent, 

While I would welcome that repose 

Well earned by years in action spent. 

Nor would I for a moment shirk 

My labors as they come to me, 

I'm willing still with zeal to work, 

If so my duty seems to be. 

But, after I have done my best, 

Performed each task I have to do, 

And God in love gives final rest, 

Night's shadows fall, and day is through, 

Would it be selfish, think, in me, 

If I should willingly depart, 

With joy respond to God's decree 

W^ithout regret, or pang of heart? 

And feel in parting I must leave 

In tears those loving ones, and know 

That for my gain, their hearts must grieve. 

To buy my rest, their tears must flow? 

To take your hand, dear wife, in mine, 

To hear your sobs of deep distress, 

To know love's tendrils so divine 

Were torn with me from your dear breast. 

To smile at sight of your hot tears 

ai7 



And in contentment glide away, 
Regardless of your gloomy years 
Whose quickened pace you'd ever pray? 

Ah, yes, 'tis selfishness I fear, 

That craves the rest which death doth give, 

Unwilling is to persevere 

And pay the price all pay to live. 

Up, up, brave heart, again prepare 

For heavy blows, which take and give. 

Fight gloom, despair and caustic care 

So long as God shall let you live. 

March 17, 1892. 



TO M. AND A. 

Dear children, as I take your hands 

And warmly clasp them in my own, 

My old heart fully understands 

What your young lips might well make known. 

Though they perchance have never told 

What I surmise they must have felt. 

For hearts will sometimes feelings hold 

That on the lips of young folks melt. 

But, I suspect, did you confess, 
That somewhere on life's pleasant way, 
A sudden sense of loveliness 
Possessed you both one sunny day, — 



You may not tell just when or whcr^- 
You heard the robin sing so swc.t. 
When skies above were wondVous fair, 
And smiles so much meant when you'd meet. 

You may not know just how in you 

So great a change was brought about; 

The robin's song is always new, 

The genis are fresh that night brings out; 

And when Love swings his mystic doors 

To let his flood of sunlight in, 

A charm unspeakable he pours 

Into the hearts that he would win. 

Dear children, may he ever hold 

You as his sacred, blessed charge. 

When years roll on and both grow old, 

May he in you his realms enlarge. 

No furrowed cheek, nor wrinkled brow, 

Nor feeble footsteps tardy pace. 

Should change the love that binds you now, 

Rut still more bless you with its grace. 

I hope that this your rule shall be. 
That any faults you may possess. 
Or those short comings you may see, 
Treat all in love and tenderness. 
Let no rude tongue, no flashing eye 
The current of your smooth life move. 
But words and deeds all testify. 
Though wedded, you are yet in love 
September 18, 1892. 



LINES TO MRS. H. GOOKINS UPON HER 
EIGHTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY. 

Just four and eighty years ago, upon this blessed day, 

A Httle bark was gently launched du life's mysterious bay. 

The skies throughout that autumn time were dyed in deepest 

blue, 
No clouds lay in the offing fair that passed not sunbeams 

through. 
Thus safe as babe in cradle rocked, as rise and fall the tide, 
The tiny craft was rigged and trimmed with all of human 

pride ; 
They stowed the hold with wond'rous skill, no labor did 

they spare. 
Whatever told for future good was furnished it with care. 

As days fast merged in weeks and months, and these to 

years gave place, 
The fragile craft new strength took on, new elements of 

grace, 
And what at first was helpless hull, without a mast or spar. 
No rudder to direct its course, no chart to show the bar, 
At length rigged sails, its pennant flew, took on its helm and 

chart, 
And was prepared with skill to sail to any distant mart. 
Yet there were those who held her fast, safe moored in 

home's dear bay, 
And years elapsed ere they would let their hearts' pride sail 

away. 



360 



(jod bless those shipwrights who prepare these human barks 

of ours, 
Whose Hves so consecrated are in all their waking hours, 
Who lay each plank without a flaw, each knee so trim and 

true, 
Each bolt so firmly driving home, that no wild sea beats 

through. 
Who take our undeveloped hulls and, through the toiling 

years, 
Fit up the head, the heart expand, point out their hopes and 

fears, , 

Till we at last can safely sail broad seas unsailed before, 
The rocks escape, the storms outride, and reach our port 

once more. 

And so the shipwrights who prepared this bark to sail life's 

sea. 
At length with tears, despite their joys, God speed they gave 

to thee. 
Long, long the years since first you weighed your anchor by 

the bar. 
And broad the seas that you have crossed, your consorts 

drifted far. 
Through storm and sunshine you have sailed, bright day and 

gloomy night. 
But compass, chart and fortitude with Christian faith gave 

might. 
You never swerved for storm nor calm, to every state 

resigned, 



361 



You placed your trust in Providence. You knew that God 
is kind. 

And thus through Hfe you've held your way, that chart so 

early given 
Has brought you safely to this port, almost in sight of 

heaven. 
The boats you've seen sail out of sight, along horizon's brim. 
The little skiffs, the stately ships — alike they are to Him. 
And somehow they will reach the port, we know not how nor 

where, 
No sail can drift unnoticed long, nor pass beyond his care. 

For years, may you here safely moor, long may the signal 

stay 
That bids you trim your sails again, and Love's strong 

anchor weigh. 
But when you do, when in God's time you next your anchor 

cast. 
The storms will all be over then — the clouds forever past. 
And when you furl your sails again, beside that happy shore. 
You'll find those consorts safely moored, who sailed with 

you before. 

November o.'j, 1893. 



362 



GRANDPA'S LOVE LETTER. 

Lines written to my little grand-daughter, Margaret 
Gale, acknowledging the receipt of a worsted picture, worked 
by herself, representing her by the gate watching for the 
writer. 

I know you are weary, my Daisy, 

From standing so long at the gate. 

You think that your grand-pa is lazy 

In making his darling so wait, 

So earnestly watching and waiting, 

And wondering why he thus stays, 

Why leave "little Margaret" debating 

About his perplexing delays. 

No reason have I for delaying. 
No motive in making you wait. 
Your picture before me keeps saying, 
"Send word to your dear little mate." 
I see your short dress of blue braiding. 
So cleverly worked in the board ; 
No shade in your crimson hat fading. 
Your shoes polished up in black cord. 

Your face though away from me turning 
In watching each man up the street, 
Prevents not at all my discerning 
The play of your countenance sweet. 
As me in each man you discover, 
(Before you distinguish his face) : 

363 



But wait for a sign from your lover, 
To rush and receive his embrace. 

I send you a rose to remember 

Your foolish, old grandpapa by, 

'Twas scarcely a bud in December, 

But bloomed 'neath this beautiful sky. 

I send you some violets too 

That peeped from their bright thatch of green, 

With eyes so resplendently blue 

And breath of the flowers' own queen. 

Yet something still sweeter I tend you — 
(So thought years ago the fair misses — ) 
Reserved from their lips do I send you 
The last of my old fashioned kisses. 
Now should you not hear it nor feel one, 
Just play with your papa a spell, 
If cute I suspect you can steal one 
To answer your purpose as well. 

Pasadena, February 8, 1895. 



364 



HOME'S SCATTERED VOYAGERS. 

I know dear wife as in a maze 
You sit with far-off, vacant look, 
You're viewing as from open book 
The panorama of the days 
When we began our wedded Hfe, 
So long ago it seems to mc_, 
The time could never, never be 
When you were not my darling wife. 

You're dreaming of the long ago, 
When you set out to sail with me 
To islands far in distant sea. 
With fears suppressed, with hopes aglow 
The bark "Sweet Home" we put afloat, 
When all its passengers and crew, 
Including you and me, were two, 
Tw^o, only two, to sail the boat. 

You're dreaming of the later crew, 
As years rolled on, how many more 
From shipwreck, and from childhood's shore 
Came on to sail with me and you. 
And how o'er pleasant seas we sped, 
Though missing loved ones from us torn 
Until it seemed that all \vere gone. 
So many had the shadows tread. 

The rest so scattered that but two 
Were left to sail the bark so loved. 



The two that first together roved — 
None walked the deck save me and you. 
You dream of how our dear sons went 
With dripping oars to sunny shores^ 
Each one with mate that he adores : 
Each with our blessing and consent. 

Thank God, "Sweet Home," we sailed so far. 

That safely bore us many years, 

Is floating yet, and stanch appears 

As when it first swept o'er the bar. 

How dear the thought, as we reflect, 

It rides at anchor by the shore, 

And we will sail as years before 

As soon as we shall so elect. 

'Tis true we'd miss the voyagers, 

And with this thought our hearts grow sad. 

But still, dear wife, we should be glad 

So many yet are left to us, 

While those who climbed the giddy mast, 

And midst the stars are lost to view. 

Will be revealed to me and you 

When w^e at last life's anchor cast. 

August 17. 1895. 



366 



HOW WE PAID TOLL WHEN WE 
WERE BOYS. 

'Twas on a bright December night 

Just forty years ago. 

The lover's moon hke a great doul)loon, 

Made diamond fields of snow. 

Myself and "Jule," from spelling school 

Drove down the old toll road, 

With jingling bell, that aches to tell 

Of lovers in the load. 

When very late we reached the gate, 

The tollman, good old soul, 

In the land of dreams was catching gleams 

Of sweethearts paying toll. 

A head was bent, with heart intent, 

That the tolls by me be paid. 

I felt relieved when a cheek received 

The toll for self and maid. 

The cheek was fair but the roses there 

Were blushing with the joke. 

Nor could I tell for the noisy bell. 

The words my fair one spoke. 

But I thought she said, as she turned her head 

"Why. what a great surprise." 

She turned her head. T think I said, 

I caught her roguish eves. 



387 



Ensnared by the wiles and the artless smiles 

Endowing the charming maid, 

I couldn't resist, but again I kissed 

The cheek I toll had paid, 

Thus taking back with a hearty smack 

The toll from her sweet face. 

And on her lips with blushing tips 

Paid double toll in place. 

November 17, 1895. 



ON PARTING WITH OUR CALIFORNIA 
HORSE, CHARLEY. 

Then, here's to thee, Old Charley, here's a bumper as we part. 
We pledge you in the sparkling springs, which from the 

mountain start. 
And you in these cool crystals clear, can pledge thus health 

of ours, 
Where we in this arroyo wild have spent such happy hours. 
Full many friends we've met with here, most charming 

friendships made. 
But not the least we reckon you, our good old horse, so 

staid, 
Who, always ready at our call, delighted seemed to go. 
As if you owned the charming spots, as host you wished to 

show. 
Your kindness thus in showing us, we never can forget. 
Our drafts upon the bank of health through you, were 

promptly met. 

368 




With everv fruit and berry choice, worth growing;- beneath the sun, 
You tempted us, yet doing so would quickly by them run. 



The roses seemed to know you well, and nodded as you 

passed, 
And as your guests, the hyacintlis their odors 'round us cast. 
With every fruit and berry choice, worth growing 'neath 

the sun. 
You tempted us, yet doing so, would quickly by them run. 
But, Charley, we'll forgive you this, to be to yourself true, 
Your knowing all our little faults, left nothing else to do. 

Then, here's to thee, Old Charley, here's a bumper as we part. 
The times we've had together, boy, are pictured in the heart. 
Which, while it beats, will there remain, yet leaves one pang 

we find. 
To think that we in going home must leave our pet behind. 
Yet as it seems it must be thus, the best thing wc can do, 
We'll place you with your friends, and ours, who'll e'er be 

kind to you. 
And rest assured, in after years when we are far from here. 
And thoughts of these bright hours spent shall come our 

hearts to cheer, 
When bloom of earth and blue of sky their glories shall 

renew 
With poppy fields and orange groves, we'll ever think of you. 
When mountains sport in masquerade, show off fantastic 

forms, 
As clouds and sunbeams loving kiss, defying threatened 

storms. 
When all these charms in years to come by us are told again. 
Clear silhouettes our dreaming eyes will make of grove and 

glen. 



And in each picture of these days we close our eyes to sec. 
Old Charley with his happy load will central figure be. 

Pasadena, November 23, 1895. 



TO A SON AND HIS W^IFE 

Upon the First Anniversary of their Marriage. 

You turn the leaf on twelve short months 

Of pleasant memories; 

No clouds have cast the slightest gloom 

O'er Love's resplendent skies. 

And turning slowly now to this 

Blank page before you spread 

So write that in the coming years 

It joy may give when read. 

Mark how the coral insects live. 

When mate and toil outlast 

Youth's tropic heat, of their dead selves 

They wreathes of islands cast 

In tropic seas, and struggling on 

As myriads began 

Their grove enchanted isles become 

The happy homes of man. 

But transient love like coral isles 
Unfinished in the deep 

370 



Contains sad wrecks in yawning caves 
Where widowed love doth weep. 
When fickle insects cease from toil 
Then 'neath the tumbling tide 
Man's slimy bones in foundered barks 
Midst tangled sea weeds hide. 

Then let your love that builds on germs 

Of buried selfishness 

Increase in strength through coming years 

Of undiminished bliss 

Until the Isles of Paradise 

From out the waters rise 

And in old age life's setting sun 

You view in cloudless skies. 

November 3, 1898. 



"Say, Mamma, he's a corker ! Eats and sleeps like a farm- 
hand and yells like a calliope whistle. He's a regular Gale 
crinkly ears and all. If the first grandson cannot stir Fathe! 
to song, I shall conclude that his poetic fire has burned out 
Just tell him so. ' Your loving boy, 

"Tom." 



EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER JUST 
RECEIVED 

About Baby Edwin Oscar Gale, Jr. 

You don't tell us it's a boy, Tom, 

With all the true Gale points, 

With those little chubby fingers. 

Deep dimples in their joints; 

Queerest crinkles in the ear-lobes, 

— The stamp that proves the clan — 

You may pull them, you may squeeze them, 

Do everything you can. 

But those crinkles ever stay there; 

If lacking, you v^^ould fail 

To convince me one without them 

Could be a baby Gale. 

Your dear Mother's always making 

Such fun about that crink. 

But should any babe as grandson 

Be lacking it, I think 

She'd suspect an imposition 

To win that silver set 

372 



That the first grandson among you 
Is certainly to get. 

I'm aware you feel elated, 
And so does your dear wife, 
That the Loving One has answered 
Your deepest prayer of life. 
He has plucked from heaven's garden 
And given to your care 
What, unquestioned, is the sweetest 
Of all the flowers there: 
And we ask, as richest blessing, 
That his whole life may be 
The delight to his dear parents, 
Which we have found in thee. 
Pasadena, November 28, 1899. 

SILENT GRACE. 

When seated at Thy bounteous board, 
We may but seldom thank Thee, Lord, 
As formal words our lips would say 
Cannot to Thee at best convey 
The gratefulness our hearts would own 

For all the blessings to us shown. 

From Thy dear hand with gratitude 

Do we receive our daily food. 

When lips are mute we, silently, 

In hearts are thankful, Lord to Thee. 

Amen. 
February 22, 1899. 



GRACE FOR CHRISTMAS. 

With happy hearts we here are met 

Around this Christmas board ; 

For bounties spread, we'd not forget 

To thank our loving Lord. 

To Him give thanks for lives prolonged, 

For health of loved ones dear, 

For all the blessings that have thronged 

Around us through the year. 

Amen. 
1903. 



NEARING THE END OF THE ROAD. 

Still towards the sunset runs the road; 

I pause beside the way. 

And fondly turn to where life's load 

Upon me lightly lay; 

I live in boyhood's golden morns, 

That with their hallowed glow 

Reveal life's roses, while its thorns 

No more amidst them show. 

Again upon the root-house roof 

I lazily recline. 

The sunshine, midst its warp and woof 

Of wind-swayed grass and vine. 

Forms couch a king might envy me, 

Who, free from manhood's care, 

374 



Claim ownership in all I sec 
On earth, on lake, in air. 

Across the bloom of prairie wide, 

Where waves low murmurs make, 

A sail of mine doth smoothly glide 

Upon the gleaming lake. 

While now and then on sky doth float 

(Forerunner of to-day) 

The smoke of some ambitious boat 

That plows in speed away. 

The yellow turbaned hosts of sun, 

(And to his flowers allied) 

Through which from me would cattle run 

Unseen, though by my side. 

The scythe and flame have put to rout. 

The flowers all have fled. 

While busy toilers move about. 

Nor sigh that Pan is dead. 

No struggling teams now do I see, 
Worn out with heavy load. 
On iron horse, most willingly 
These burdens are bestowed. 
'Tis many years since my young eyes 
Saw, free from smoke and shade 
Beyond where stately buildings rise, 
White caravans of trade. 

375 



Yet memory retains for me 
Those scenes I loved of yore, 
I see them as but yesterday, 
Through Time's slow closing door, 
Midst rosin weeds I see the herds. 
O'er fields of waving grain, 
I catch the songs of happy birds, 
And I am young again. 

January 14, 1899. 



376 



OUR GOLDEN WEDDING, 
OCTOBER 14th, 1906. 

We had a Golden Wedding, wife, 

Just fifty years ago. 
Ere Time had plowed your roses in 

Where smiling furrows show. 
Had dreams of golden promises, 

Saw willows turn to gold, 
And sugar maples tastefully 

Their golden leaves unfold. 

Saw golden sunbeams day by day 

Turn gold the bearded grain ; 
And golden sunsets kiss the clouds 

Till rainbows blushed in rain. 
Those dreams of golden promises 

We saw results attain, 
Sol's golden beams each Autunm time 

Brought forth the golden grain. 

And ever since that golden morn 

Which filled our hearts with praise, 
Those golden dreams for us presaged 

A life of happy days. 
Not always do youth's dreams prove true. 

Some married people find 
The love they pledge dies out in time. 

Is buried far lichind. 

377 



And yet we pledged not to obey, 

But if I recollect 
We simply promised we would love, 

Would cherish and protect. 
But when we promised each so much 

Upon that lovely day, 
We might as well have promised then 

That we would each obey 

For somehow Cupid's held the reins 

Through half a century; 
And while I think I've mastered you. 

You know you've mastered me. 
Perennial love the secret is 

Of happy man and wife ; 
For fifty years no unkind word 

Has marred our wedded life. 

When man and woman learn to grow 

Affection's sacred vine, 
The home with that sweet atmosphere 

Becomes almost divine. 
The happy wife and mother proud 

Scarce rules from such a throne 
Ere father and the children learn 

Her happiness their own. 



PRESS OPINIONS OF REMINISCENCES OF 
EARLY CHICAGO. 

By Edwin O. Gale. 
Illustrated by W. E. S. Trowbridge. 

"Mr. Gale is full of anecdotes and character sketches of 
old settlers, some of whom are with us now, or are known 
to us all, and others, no less interesting, belong altogether 
to the past. He also tells of the first churches, the first 
newspapers, post-masters, mayors and so forth, and fills his 
text with personal touches of the most wholesome, whole- 
souled type." — Chicago Rccord-Hcrald. 

"Such reminiscences as fill this book have an interest 
even to those who cannot share them, and, in a land w^here 
traditions pass so abruptly, the making of such a record, 
before it is too late, is, within its scope, a service to historical 
work." — Nczv York Tribune. 

"The author has spent much time and careful discrimina- 
tion in gathering for publication much valuable material 
which otherwise would probably have been lost, and he is 
entitled to the thanks of every citizen of Chicago who glories 
in her history, not to mention their desire to purchase his 
interesting volume of reminiscences." — Chicago Evening 
Post. 

"Mr. Gale's father was one of the men who sailed from 
Buffalo for Chicago, with their families, on the brig Illinois 
in the year 1835, when the place was an insignificant trading- 
post, surrounded by Indian encampments and guarded by 
little Fort Dearborn. As boy and man Mr. Gale was in- 
timately connected with Chicago's growth, and his recollec- 



tions are tinged with that personal quahty which is never 
without its interest." — Nczv York Commercial Advertiser. 

"Chicago is fortunate in having records of this kind in 
her early days. No other city of her size ever had so definite 
an account of its beginnings and continued progress. This 
book is the work of a man who has something to say that is 
worth saying." — Chicago Chronicle. 

"A wealth of truth that is more wonderful than romance, 
a plain tale hiding in its depths all the sweetness, strength 
and helpfulness of primeval life is the volume of 'Reminis- 
cences of Early Chicago and Vicinity.' It is the story of 
the babyhood and boyhood of the young giant whose growth 
is the eighth wonder of the world." — Chicago Record-Herald. 

"It is full of minute, personal information, told simply, 
directly and with accuracy, constituting a most invaluable 
and interesting record, one singularly free from padding and 
lull of interesting details too often forgotten." — Book Nezvs, 
Philadelphia. 

"There is probably no city in the world besides Chicago 
in which the reminiscences of living man can so delightfully 
add the charm of personality to its history from its beginning 
to the present day — and within the covers of a single volume. 
Mr. Gale has done well to preserve his reminiscences and 
present them in accessible form, and he is to be congratulated 
that his work is admirably done from a literary point of 
view. His most trivial anecdote means something and even 
the street signs which he cites point the way to a future 
which he has lived long enough to witness and to enjoy." — 
New York Times. 

•380 



"He knew all of those early men whose names are now 
embalmed in the city's streets and public places, and whose 
monument is the great metropolis itself. He recalls early 
settlers, stores, schools, churches, business, and customs, 
transportation and water supply, papers and preachers. It 
is at once a fairy tale and a book of humor, if the essence of 
humor is incongruity. The book is full of interest to those 
who knew the Chicago of old, and to those who know the 
city of to-day — a countless multitude." — The Advance, 
Chicago. 

''The author of this volume lived in Chicago when it 
was only a military and trading post and has seen it grow 
under his very eyes to its present stupendous magni- 
tude and splendor. It is a beautiful book in print, illustra- 
tion and binding, and its literary workmanship is in keeping 
with its mechanical features. To inhabitants of the me- 
tropolis of the West, as well as to the whole public the book 
is of the greatest interest and value and reads like romance.'' 
— Presbyterian Banner, Pittsburg. 

"The author is a historian and story-teller combined. 
Against a background of accepted history in industry, so- 
ciety and politics he unfolds a personal narrative full of 
intelligent observation, impressions and anecdotes, which 
maintain a vitality throughout the book that are altogether 
charming. He writes, too. with a clean, artistic perception, 
and is thus able to reproduce in the reader's mind a truth- 
ful reflection of human emotions." — Nezi.' York Observer. 

''Edwin O. Gale is one of the oldest and best-known 
residents of this extraordinary city. Having preserved to 



this day an intelligent and keen knowledge of events, his 
"Reminiscences of Early Chicago" is a work which must 
be reckoned with by all future historians of the marvelous 
series of phenomena which have taken place within this 
single lifetime, still many years, let it be hoped, from its 
close. So thoroughly is his work here done and so acute 
his memory that it is possible to reconstruct from his cata- 
logue raisonne a directory of the earlier inhabitants of the 
city and give to each a local habitation and a name." — Chi- 
cago Daily Nczvs. 

"In relating his 'Reminiscences of Early Chicago and 
Vicinity,' Edwin O. (jale carries his reader back to the 
time when there were more Indians in Chicago than white 
people. Mr. Gale accompanied his parents to the hopeful 
young city on May 25, 1835, and since that day his life 
has been bound up in the growth of the great city, which 
he has had the privilege of observing." — Chicago Tribune. 

"Mr. Gale, who has walked hand in hand with Chi- 
cago's advancement at every step, feels a thrill regarding 
every feature of the hamlet where his eyes first took con- 
scious notice of anything. His feeling has deepened as the 
600 (the maximum estimate of the population he first saw 
there) have died or scattered beyond knowledge, that he 
escaped to tell us of his own and the city's cradle-years. 
No wonder his heart sometimes overflows in 'measured 
lines which jingle at their ends'; and readers of his pathetic 
stanzas on Chicago River will hesitate to call him a mean 
poet." — The Nation. 



382 



NOV 2 1906 



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